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

Fen and Seraph's eyes widened as the hangar unfolded before them. The space was a sprawling, high-tech staging area, bustling with activity. Rows of uniformed operatives moved in synchronized efficiency, unloading crates, inspecting gear, and preparing for the chaos ahead. The gleaming insignia of Fisck Cyberdine Inc. adorned everything—from sleek exosuits mid-transfiguration to walls lined with weapons. And towering above it all stood an honest-to-code airship, its polished frame a strange juxtaposition of medieval design and cutting-edge technology.

"These were some last-minute purchases," Fisck said dryly, his gaze sweeping over the equipment. His tone was light, but the precision in his eyes betrayed the calculation behind it.

As Fen stepped into the open air of the hangar, his breath caught at the sight before him. The scene buzzed with activity—a surreal clash of industrial grit and fantastical elegance, a stark contrast that spoke volumes about the SynthNet's peculiar logic. Everywhere he looked, technology was undergoing metamorphosis, shedding its utilitarian skin and emerging as something more suited to the verdant fantasy battlefield ahead.

In the center of the hangar, massive autonomous mechs stood on plated legs, their hydraulic systems hissing as they shifted into place. Yet as Fen watched, the transmutation process began. Panels of alloy shimmered, their angular surfaces softening and expanding. Cold, machine precision melted into rippling musculature—trolls, yetis, and snarling tusks included. Where their limbs once ended in mechanical grippers or plasma drills, they now bore wickedly curved claws and brutish fists capable of tearing through walls—or, more likely, through armies.

The process wasn't handled manually. The SynthNet itself managed the transformation, responding to preloaded configurations designed by Cyberdine's best—engineers, artists, tacticians. Like a skin vendor scaled to military spec, each mech was dressed in code-layered illusions engineered for specific battlefield roles: shock and awe, speed and evasion, raw brutality. It was seamless, reactive, and efficient. The work of a hundred minds distilled into a single, silent shift of geometry and style.

Fen gave a low whistle. "That's incredible."

Seraph's eyes narrowed as a war-beast of chrome and fur twisted into final form. "It's like cheating," she said, not disapproving—just honest.

Fisck didn't slow, didn't look back. "It's war," he said simply. "There's no such thing."

Then, after a pause, his tone cooled further. "The other corps have their tricks. Their skins. Their monsters. But we outthink them. Outbuild them. Outspend them." He turned slightly, just enough for his gaze to catch the reflection of the transforming hangar in the polished chrome of a passing loader. "The rest are playing to survive. I play to win."

Fen felt the weight of the words settle in the air behind him—more doctrine than boast. Fisck didn't care how the game was played, only that it ended with his flag still flying.

This wasn't a force designed to compete.
It was designed to dominate.

Nearby, wearable exosuits lined with servo motors and reinforced plating were mid-transformation, reshaping into suits of enchanted plate armor that towered over their users. These weren't worn—they were mounted. Colossal constructs with cockpit-like hollows at the chest, where pilots nestled between arcane HUDs and runes that pulsed with barely-contained force. The metal shimmered as it changed, shifting in texture and color until it resembled muscle, horn, and carved ivory. It didn't just look real—it would feel real to the touch.

Fen's gaze drifted to the airship at the far end of the hangar. A brigantine-class beast, it floated beneath the massive ceiling like a threat barely leashed. Twin masts jutted upward between balloon tanks embossed with iridescent dragon-scale patterns. Along the polished deck were rows of mounted weaponry: ballistae gleaming with enchanted steel, and black powder cannons locked into sleek pivot arms. Below deck, warm light spilled from lattice portholes where more systems thrummed beneath the surface. Twin turbines at the stern were designed to cut the air with slow, methodical force, while canvas wings angled out from either side, maintaining stability with predatory grace.

Fen turned toward the row of ground vehicles arriving near the dock—hover cars and bikes, their sleek metallic surfaces catching the hangar's low light. As he watched, the machines began to shift. Cars elongated and widened, sprouting limbs where wheels had been. Metallic feathers unfurled with hydraulic precision, manes shimmering like starlight. Bikes twisted inward, front forks morphing into the sharp-jawed heads of drakes and gryphons. Wings snapped open: wide, jointed, and etched with obsessive detail. Even a few chariots took shape, their forms drawn by luminous steeds born of hard light and forged steel.

Fen gestured toward the looming airship anchored at the edge of the hangar. "That thing—what was it before?"

"Standard cargo hauler," Fisck said without hesitation. "Most of these started as modular rigs. Utility tech that can pass for anything until we lock in the sim parameters. Gryphons don't come off an assembly line. Not directly."

He gave a faint smile. "It's all about adaptability. Why build a gryphon from scratch when a hovercraft can serve a dozen roles and be transmuted to match the battlefield?"

"That explains the Pegasi," Fen said as one flapped its wings which were smooth as silk, impossibly precise.

"I've seen transfigurations before," Fen said, still watching. "Just... never the prep. By the time I get involved, they're already in the sim. Ready to use after all the magic is done I suppose."

"That's common," Fisck replied. "The prep phase is buried behind logistics. Expensive and complicated. Most people just see the final result and assume it was always that way."

The glow of transfiguration pulsed across the bay, machinery turning into mythical creatures and war machines.

Fen watched a bike finish folding into a gryphon. Its wings flared, backlit by magic and steel. "The SynthNet really could conjure all this out of nothing, though. Right?"

"Yes," Fisck said, tilting his head. "And in the early iterations of the SynthNet, that's exactly what happened. Anything you could imagine, you could have. But the values collapsed. If everyone can manifest the crown jewels, what are they worth? If you can spawn an armada, what's the point of trade?"

"The histories say it was chaos," Seraph cut in, nodding. "I'm sure Siren told you about the early eras, before they tried to convert Auri. First-gen SynthNet nearly collapsed from it. No scarcity, no rules. Just power and noise. People rejected uploading because of it—everything felt too easy. Nothing felt real."

She crossed her arms, her voice quieter now. "They had to change everything. Manufactured goods brought stability. Grounded the economy. It gave people a reason to fight fair—at least a little."

Fisck didn't argue. He simply turned back toward the dock, where two Pegasi rose in eerie unison, wings beating slow and heavy as they lifted toward the loading gantry—angels shaped for war.

He gestured at the scene before them. "Transmutation bridges the gap. It keeps things flexible without breaking the economy. It's elegant, really. The AIs simulate raw resources behind the scenes—ore, fuel, exotic compounds—all tied to commodity balances. Players mine them in sims, earn them through quests, or fight over them in designated war zones. It keeps the scarcity real enough to matter."

Fen frowned, eyeing the trolls. "Elegant's not the first word I'd use to describe that." He pointed toward the massive, snarling creatures now flexing their newly formed claws.

Seraph smirked. "Well, it beats having to hand-build a troll every time someone needs one."

"That still doesn't explain the airship," Fen said, his gaze returning to the brigantine anchored at the far end of the hangar. "I mean—look at it. That's not just a skin job. That's art."

Fisck nodded, his tone quieter now, touched by something like reverence. "True craftsmanship," he said. "The base model was a high-speed military transport—efficient, brutal, utilitarian. But once it was transmuted... that's where the magic happens. Every flourish, every enchantment, every inch of aesthetic nonsense you're seeing? Hand-coded. Designed to be more than functional."

He stepped closer to the edge of the lift, eyes locked on the ship's sweeping hull. "The system applies the transformation automatically, yes—but the configurations, the overlays, the simulations? Those take hundreds of hours. The artistry matters. Style, silhouette, presence. I didn't build it just to move troops. I built it to be remembered."

He let out a slow breath. "This isn't just a ship. It's my legacy. My masterwork." A beat. Then, softly, almost to himself: "The SNS Verdant Legacy. Or simply, the Legacy."

Fen exchanged a glance with Seraph. For all Fisck's cold edges and executive command, there was something real there—some deeper tie to the vessel he'd poured himself into.

"She's impressive," Fen said at last, more grounded now. "Never really thought about how much of this stuff isn't just for show."

Fisck's expression shifted, sharpening again. "Most don't. That's the difference between a player and a professional. Players buy what's flashy. Professionals build what lasts."

Seraph leaned toward Fen and murmured, "Guess we're working with professionals now."

Fen didn't respond right away. His eyes were still on the ship. "Profits before people," he muttered, too low for anyone but Seraph to hear.

Fisck's head turned fractionally. "Professionalism," he said, voice clipped but calm. "Is what keeps the SynthNet from collapsing under its own weight."

They said nothing else. The trio stepped onto the lift, the platform's edges flaring to life beneath their feet.

As it rose, the upper decks of the Legacy came into clearer view. Crew moved with precise coordination, their transmuted armor glinting like liquid silver. From here, Fen could see the forward command post, the intricate gun placements along the rail, and the sweeping glass canopy over the bridge. Every detail had purpose. Every line spoke of control.

And just beneath it all, humming with restraint, was power.

Fisck allowed himself a small, indulgent smile as he stepped onto the deck. "Our journey to the Verdant Expanse will take approximately two hours. Please, make yourselves comfortable while we get underway."

Fen and Seraph exchanged glances.

"Two hours?" Fen echoed, eyebrows raised. "We walked the whole four-block loop just to meet you—it took fifteen minutes. There's no way all that fits inside what we saw."

Fisck's grin widened, his tone turning almost conspiratorial. "Ah, well—for a rather substantial fee, generously split by the participating corporations—we made it larger on the inside. Tricks of geometry and code compression."

Fen tilted his head, letting out a quiet breath. "Bigger on the inside, huh. No idea why, but I feel like Auri would've loved that."

Fisck continued, unbothered. "From the outside, the Verdant Expanse occupies four city blocks. But within, it spans nearly twenty kilometers to a side and rises from the bedrock to a sky fortress nearly a kilometer above. Every meter has been painstakingly designed for maximum immersion."

A low chime sounded as the ramp extended, guiding them up onto the open deck. From there, Fisck led them beneath the upper structure and through a set of double doors into the heart of the ship. The corridor inside was refined but not gaudy—walls paneled in rich, dark wood, accented with polished brass and softly glowing crystal sconces. Beneath their feet, the floor hummed with a faint thread of arcane energy—subtle, but ever-present.

Fisck led them down the hall and gestured to a set of double doors.

Inside, the room was cozy but well-appointed. Two bunks lined the walls, dressed in emerald bedding. A polished table stood in the center with a pitcher of water and a decanter of amber liquid waiting atop it.

"These are your quarters for the duration of the flight," Fisck explained. His tone was brisk, but not impolite. "I trust you'll find them adequate. Refreshments will be available in the chart room past the main hall. We begin preliminary planning in thirty minutes."

With that, he turned sharply on his heel and strode off, coat flaring slightly as he vanished into the corridor.

Seraph stepped inside and took a long look around before sitting on the edge of the nearest bunk. "Not a palace," she said, "but better than that storeroom."

Fen lingered by the door, still taking it all in. "This whole thing feels... different."

Seraph glanced up at him and smiled faintly. "It is. Bigger stakes. Bigger stage. We're officially in the big leagues now."

Moments later, the airship shuddered as a whistle pierced the air, followed by the rhythmic shouts of the crew calling commands to one another. A faint vibration coursed through the deck as the ship began to move, and Fen and Seraph exchanged a quick glance.

"We're going to the deck," Fen said decisively, already stepping toward the door.

"Agreed," Seraph replied, grabbing her coat as she followed.

As they emerged onto the upper deck, a rush of crisp air greeted them, carrying the faint scent of metal and rain—like the whisper of a storm yet to come. Ahead, a shimmering barrier loomed between the bay and the arena, a translucent veil rippling with energy. The ship crossed it with a soft hum—and the world beyond unfurled like a storybook.

The transformation was immediate. The sterile expanse of the bay fell away, replaced by a vibrant, living tapestry. From their vantage point, the duo could see the endless emerald canopy stretching toward the horizon, broken only by pockets of sunlit grasslands to the east. The verdant jungle swayed gently in the artificial breeze, crowned with golden blossoms shimmering like spun glass.

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Far below, a gleaming river carved through the jungle's heart, its mirrored surface catching fragments of the sunlight as if holding the sky within its depths. Its banks were lined with sprawling towns and cities, their intricate stonework and timber frames surrounded by meticulously tended farmland. Fields of golden grain stretched outward, their neat rows in stark contrast to the wild chaos of the jungle pressing at their borders—an eternal battle between cultivation and nature.

And at the heart of it all, dominating the landscape, rose a colossal polyhedral crystal. Its facets gleamed like a thousand mirrors, reflecting the vibrant hues of the world around it. A network of stone rings orbited the crystal in lazy, deliberate loops, etched with glowing runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. The structure dwarfed anything Fen had seen before, and he couldn't shake the feeling that it was watching them, its silent presence both omnipotent and ominous.

Seraph whistled low. "Fisck wasn't kidding about the scale. That thing is... I don't even have the words."

They stepped out onto the upper viewing deck as the ship gained altitude, the wind cooler now, tinged with the faint scent of ozone and varnished wood. Fen leaned on the railing, eyes drawn upward to the massive arcane crystal suspended beneath the skybridge. It glowed faintly, its facets shifting like it was calculating—or watching.

"It's breathtaking," he admitted, voice quiet. "But I don't like that thing hovering over us. Feels like we're trading one set of crazy AI overlords for another. And this one's not even pretending to like us."

Seraph followed his gaze. The crystal pulsed once, faint and slow.

Fen frowned. "We know it's tied to the zone controller, right? That's not just ambient scenery." He trailed off, the unease settling deeper in his gut. "Just seems like it's waiting."

The ship banked gently southward, and the crew sprang into motion. Sails unfurled with practiced ease, and dual propellers accelerated with a rising hum. The whole vessel surged forward with surprising grace, canvas wings flexing to maintain balance. Fen judged their speed at fifteen, maybe twenty knots—fast for something this size, even in a sim.

"Again," Fen said, half-smiling, "can't help but think Auri would've loved this. I can almost hear her now—something about interdimensional folds and pocketed render zones."

Seraph chuckled under her breath but didn't say anything. Fen stayed at the rail a moment longer, eyes on the horizon, that quiet pulse of the crystal still prickling at the edge of his thoughts.

"She'd probably pick a fight with the crystal," Seraph said, laughing softly. "Claim it was hogging all the attention."

The wind whipped at their cloak and jacket as the airship surged onward, the world below coming alive with every passing second. It was a land of contrasts—untamed wilderness and cultivated civilization locked in perpetual harmony, all under the watchful eye of the massive crystal. For the first time, the weight of what lay ahead began to settle in Fen's mind.

"Two hours, huh?" he muttered, his voice almost lost in the wind. "Plenty of time to get used to the idea of whatever's waiting for us."

Seraph glanced at him, her expression unreadable, before turning her gaze back to the horizon. "Let's just hope we're ready for it."

The ship pressed onward, carving its path through the skies, as the duo stood in silence, letting the majesty of the Verdant Expanse sink in.

The steady hum of the engines and the faint creak of the airship's timbers blended into a rhythm, grounding the vastness of the scene before them. Fen leaned on the railing, tracking the jungle's endless green canopy below, where a river carved shimmering lines through the heart of it all. Seraph stood nearby, her gaze fixed on the horizon's jagged mountains, their peaks softened by the haze of distance.

They let most of the thirty minutes pass in silence—just watching. Absorbing everything they'd survived. It was their first real chance to take in the scope of where they'd landed, to size up its dangers and anticipate what the next few days might demand.

As the planning session drew near, a deliberate cough broke the quiet—not loud, but pitched perfectly, commanding attention without demanding it. Fen turned, one hand brushing his sword hilt as instinct briefly overrode reason.

The man approaching moved with easy precision, his boots tapping the deck in time with the ship's subtle sway. His deep-blue, silver-trimmed coat fit perfectly, but the open collar and rolled-back cuffs gave him a casual edge, as if the uniform answered to him, not the other way around. A faint smile played at his lips, quick and warm, paired with dark eyes that flicked to Fen, measured him in a heartbeat, and settled as though he'd decided they were equals.

"Fenris," the man said, his voice steady and laced with good humor. "And Seraph." He gave her a nod of acknowledgment before focusing back on Fen. "Desmond Ghram. Second-in-command of this little adventure. Thought I'd say hello before dragging you off to the next step."

The name hit Fen like a gut punch. Fenris. He'd heard it since the fall, but only from people he trusted. Now, above a fresh battlefield and surrounded by strangers, it triggered something deeper. His shoulders tensed before he could stop them, instincts flaring like he'd just been marked. For a split second, he braced for the worst—an alarm, a weapon, something.

But nothing happened.

He remembered, belatedly, that he still wore the new skin—tags scrambled, face generic, voice filtered. His ID was invisible to anyone not looking too closely.

Seraph noticed Fen's shoulders tense and stepped forward smoothly, her voice steady. "That's us."

It gave Fen the second he needed. He forced himself to breathe, letting the tension bleed out through a slow exhale. This was the plan. This was the window Sarge had urged him to use.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes sharpening as his usual cool slid back into place. "Do all second-in-commands greet people personally, or is this special treatment?"

Desmond leaned an elbow on the railing, mirroring Fen with a casual grin. "Only the ones worth meeting." His tone stayed light, but his eyes sharpened at the edges—the kind of man who could flip from charm to command in a breath if the need arose. "Besides, I figured you'd appreciate skipping the whole 'ten-minute protocol lecture' routine."

Seraph smirked, her shoulders easing slightly. "Efficient and personable. That's a dangerous combination."

"Dangerous?" Desmond mused, the grin shifting into something more playful. "I'd like to think it's pragmatic. "Keeps things running smoothly—and gives me an excuse to meet the interesting ones in person."

Fen huffed a laugh, his wariness slipping further. "Pragmatic's a polite way to say you enjoy keeping people guessing."

Desmond shrugged, unbothered. "Guilty as charged. Shall we? The next act awaits."

Desmond's steps were fluid, like someone who knew every plank and pulse of the ship. Fen glanced at Seraph, who arched an eyebrow and gestured for him to follow.

They descended a narrow, curving stairwell. Desmond glanced back with a grin, his pace unhurried but confident.

"Chart room's just ahead. Decent chairs, plenty of maps. "Though I'd avoid touching anything that looks expensive—Fisck has a long memory and a short tolerance for fingerprints."

Fen snorted, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. Desmond was smooth, no question, but there was nothing false about him. Fen didn't trust easily, but something about the man's balance of ease and edge made him lower his guard.

After a short walk down the corridor, they stepped into the map room. It was dimly lit, the glow of enchanted sconces casting warm, golden light onto polished wood and brass fixtures. The far wall was dominated by a massive map, ten feet across in all dimensions, its intricate details painstakingly rendered. Rivers carved silver veins through dense emerald forests, while scattered towns and towering castles stood as tiny bastions in the vast wilderness. Dark charcoal circles marked half a dozen locations across the map, their strokes bold and deliberate.

Fisck stood before the map, his posture straight, arms clasped behind his back. He didn't turn as they entered, his focus fixed, as if willing the map to reveal its secrets. The air was thick with anticipation, the faint hum of arcane machinery underscoring the moment.

"Good," Fisck said curtly, acknowledging their presence without looking. "You're here."

Desmond quirked an eyebrow but said nothing, leaning against the nearest table with an air of practiced nonchalance. Seraph, ever observant, took a place near the wall, arms crossed but eyes sharp. Fen stepped closer, already scanning the map.

Fisck gestured toward the circles with a sharp motion. "This is the Verdant Expanse, as I'm sure you've guessed. We're currently en route to your team's aerial bastion, so I figured we'd get a head start on strategy."

He traced two bold symbols at opposite corners of the map. "The underground and aerial division headquarters are fixed—those locations are public knowledge. It's a deliberate design choice to keep any one team from gaining too much of an edge. Balances the chaos."

He paused, his voice tightening slightly. "The land divisions are another matter entirely."

He tapped one of the charcoal marks, a walled city nestled at the edge of a river. "These are our best guesses for the three ground HQs. The rules allow each team to choose their locations freely, as long as they meet certain criteria. Castles, fortified towns, and walled cities are common picks. Obvious ones."

"But not the only ones," Fen murmured, eyes narrowing as he studied the map.

Fisck gave him a brief nod. "Exactly. Some teams prefer more unconventional setups. Deep forest encampments, hidden under the thickest canopies—harder to locate, but harder to reinforce. It's a calculated risk."

He stepped back from the map, folding his hands behind his back. "Remember, this is a battle royale. Five divisions enter, one leaves. If more than one team survives to the end, it comes down to a final pitched battle—no hiding, no retreat, just one winner."

Desmond stepped forward, his fingers tapping the edge of the table. "These first planning sessions are all about locating the others. We've been caught flat-footed before—teams hiding deep in the jungle, laying low until the final phase and hitting hard when everyone else is bloodied. If they've gone to ground again, finding them in that mess is next to impossible."

As he spoke, Fen stepped closer to the map, his eyes narrowing. "Here."

The interruption was quiet, almost an afterthought—more to himself than to the room. His finger hovered over a stretch of forest just south of one of the charcoal marks.

Fisck and Desmond exchanged a glance.

"Why there?" Fisck asked, cautious but curious.

Fen didn't look up. He traced the river winding through the area, then tapped a nearby circle, noting a small town, before continuing, his voice low and focused. "If I were them, I'd consider this spot. The river gives them a natural barrier, fresh water, and a clean retreat path if it goes sideways. The forest's dense enough to hide troop movement but close enough to that town to raid for supplies."

Desmond straightened, his grin fading as he leaned in to study the map. "That's a solid hunch," he said, tone more thoughtful now. "Fits what we've seen before."

Fen nodded slightly, still focused. "It's not just about staying hidden. If they bury themselves too deep, they isolate. No reinforcements, no fallback. But here? They're close enough to stay relevant but far enough to avoid early detection. And if they lock down this waterway, they can cut off flanking routes and supply lines for the other armies. Anyone moving against them from the west walks into a bottleneck."

He tapped the map again, then glanced up. "Who are the ground teams this cycle? Can we glean anything from what you know about them?"

The room fell quiet for a beat, Fen's words hanging in the air like dust settling over the polished table.

Seraph looked to Desmond, who gave a small, approving nod before turning to Fisck.

Fisck's eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "FlexLink, Joyport, and Inconn are this cycle's ground divisions. FlexLink always picks the same fortified ruin near the eastern ridge—Geoff Watts is unimaginative but consistent. Joyport... well, they're being led by the owner's son, Thadwick Skarne, this cycle. Barely qualified. No way he came up with a setup that clever."

Desmond snorted. "Yeah wouldn't be him, not unless someone programmed him a strategic brain patch overnight."

Fisck ignored the jab. "That leaves Inconn. Their squad's being run by a mercenary general—Taggart Wolf. Calls himself 'The Wolf,' if you can stomach the lack of subtlety. He's good. Patient. The kind of man who thinks two phases ahead. If someone picked that spot for tactical flexibility and river control, it'd be him."

He looked back at the map, then gave Fen a measuring glance. "And if you're right... we'll need to move fast."

There was a slight tilt to Fisck's head now, just enough to register the insight. "Interesting. We'll keep it in mind. If you're right, it saves us time. If not..." He let the thought trail off, eyes briefly locking with Fen. "We'll adjust."

Fen finally looked up, his gaze steady. "Then let's scout it. If I'm right, we catch them early. If "Then let's scout it. If I'm right, we catch them early. If I'm wrong, no harm done—at least we're not chasing ghosts later."

"Didn't think I'd be getting strategy lessons today," Desmond said, "but I'm not complaining."

Seraph smirked, pushing off the wall. "Careful, Fen. You're setting a dangerous precedent. People might start thinking you know what you're doing."

Fen gave her a dry look, already turning back to the map. He studied it in silence, possibilities branching in his mind as the weight of the coming conflict settled over him.

He gestured toward a dense cluster of trees near the map's southern edge, tracing the faint outline of a bordering ridge. "Here," he began, voice calm and focused. "I'd use this high ground. It gives them clear visibility of the river and—"

Shouts erupted on the deck above—faint at first, then growing sharper. Boots thundered overhead, and the three in the map room froze, tension crackling in the sudden quiet.

The door burst open. A young runner stumbled in, pale and breathless. "Sir! Fliers—large formation, inbound fast!"

Fisck turned, disbelief flashing across his face. "Fliers? Already? That's not possible."

Desmond was already moving. "Vector?"

"North-northwest. No more than five minutes."

Desmond swore under his breath and stepped up to the map. "How did they get so close this early?"

Fen moved up beside him. "Is an ambush like this even allowed? How is that legal?"

Fisck gave a clipped nod. "Technically, yes. The moment a registered team enters the zone, the match is live. After that, there aren't many rules—just the victory conditions."

"But launching fliers this early?" Desmond shook his head. "That's what's odd. No one risks this many expensive assets unless they think they've got a real shot at taking down one of our most important pieces early."

Seraph crossed her arms, eyes drifting toward the ceiling like she could already hear the engines closing in. "This is a nice ship, but is the Legacy really that important for them to make a move this bold?"

"It's not just a ship," Fisck said, voice tight. "It's a strategic asset. Command node. Field relay. Mobile fortress. Lose it, and we might as well surrender now."

Desmond's jaw flexed. "There's no other reason for a division to push this hard, this fast—unless their goal is to cripple us before we even get moving."

He pointed toward the map, voice sharpening. "And what really screams foul play is the timing. If they're already airborne, they launched before we left the dock. They had to know exactly when we were setting out. That kind of timing? You don't get that without outside help. Or someone on the inside."

Fen exchanged a look with Seraph. The mention of outside help put him on edge. It couldn't be random. The Spyders? The Overseers? He knew both had eyes everywhere—and both were coming for them—but this fast?

He shoved the thought aside before it could root deeper, forcing himself to focus.

Fisck's gaze narrowed, suspicion flaring as it settled on both of them. "Which means someone knew our movements in advance."

Fen caught the look and held it. "I know how that sounds. But if we were working for another team, we wouldn't need some elaborate plan. We could have tossed you overboard the moment we left the dock."

He let the words hang a beat, then added, steady and direct,

"I get it. You don't trust us yet. Fine. But trust this—we're on this ship too. And if they take it down, we go down with it. Now let's deal with the actual threat. Any guesses who's behind it?"

Fisck didn't respond right away. His eyes locked on Fen's, searching for something. After a moment, he gave a short nod.

"This was a bold move, and would have needed serious resources behind it to succeed."

"Inconn or Joyport," Desmond muttered. "Joyport's got the cash, but not the brainpower. Inconn brought in Wolf for a reason. This feels like his style… though I'm surprised he'd make a play this reckless."

Seraph's mouth tightened. "So what's the move?"

"We hold them off," Desmond said. "Make them regret starting this war early."

Fen stepped away from the map, his gaze flicking between Fisck, Desmond, and the runner. "How many?"

"Two dozen at least," the runner stammered, shrinking slightly under Fisck's scrutiny. "More in reserve, from the looks of it."

Fisck exhaled sharply, the sound carrying more frustration than fear. "We brought scouts as an escort, but our heavy war fliers weren't scheduled to depart from the loading bay until we reached the flying bastion. Contact the air wing captains. Tell them we need them in the air—now. We'll have to hold out until they catch up."

He paused for the briefest moment, then gave a curt nod and strode toward the deck. "Desmond, sound the alarm. Get everyone to their stations. And find out how the hell they slipped past our scouts."

Fen looked to Seraph. She gave a quick nod, crossbow already in hand. Without a word, she moved to his side, calm and ready.

As they followed Fisck onto the deck, Fen spoke just loud enough for the others to hear. "Seraph, I think it's time we earned our keep. Desmond, we'll buy you the time you need for those heavy fliers to catch up."

He gave a sharp smile, eyes narrowing on the incoming shapes still distant against the clouds. "Now, Mr. Fisck… let us show you why we're worth the investment."