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

The hum of the airship engines droned on, steady and rhythmic, a backdrop to the tense silence on deck. The ambush had left its mark—though no one spoke of it, the nervous glances and tightened grips on weapons told the story well enough. Fen leaned against the railing, arms crossed, eyes scanning the horizon where the endless jungle met the sky.

"You're brooding again," Seraph said from a few paces away, her crossbow slung casually over her shoulder. "Classic brooding face."

"I don't brood," Fen replied, not bothering to look at her. "I calculate."

"Right," she said, smirking. "But the eyebrows furrow when you calculate. Totally different."

Fen let the jab slide, his gaze still pinned to the tree line. "It doesn't sit right, Seraph. That ambush—it wasn't just lucky. They knew where we'd be."

Desmond passed nearby with a clipboard tucked under one arm and stopped mid-step. "Ah, the thousand-credit question after any ambush." He turned to face them, his expression lighter than the topic warranted. "We've been debating it ourselves. Fisck's leaning toward bad luck. I'm not so sure."

"Bad luck?" Fen's voice sharpened. "They just happened to be airborne, in the right quadrant, minutes after we dropped?"

Desmond gave him a look. "I take it you're not familiar with how Division War entries work. Not surprising—it's your first cycle."

Fen frowned. "Enlighten me."

"The entry points are randomized every round. It's supposed to prevent teams from laying traps at each other's drop zones—it's designed to stop exactly what just happened," Desmond explained, shifting to lean against the railing. "Granted, the Legacy's not exactly subtle. Anyone paying attention can guess the general region once we're airborne."

"But guessing the region isn't the same as timing a strike team to intercept us mid-drop," Fen said. "They weren't just nearby—they were waiting."

Desmond nodded. "Exactly. That's what's bothering me. Spotting us once we're moving? Sure. But launching a fully coordinated strike force in the first hour? And one of this size? That would take massive commitment. Funding. And more than anything—intel."

He let the silence stretch, then added more grimly, "That kind of investment? Unheard of this early. Most teams are still scrambling for gear and positioning. Which just furthers the narrative that this wasn't luck."

Fen's jaw tightened. "So someone either paid a lot… or had inside access."

Seraph stepped closer, her expression sobering. "They knew what they were doing. Hit us fast, hard, and aimed straight for the people that mattered. That's not a warm-up skirmish. That's a statement."

Desmond didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the helm. "We're still digging through the aftermath. We lost more than a few high-ranking officers. Command staff's mostly intact, but their guards weren't as lucky. We gave as good as we got, but... it wasn't cheap. And for them to be willing to lose so many this early just to go after Fisck? That means they thought there was a real shot at taking us out. The army that did this is going to be at a huge disadvantage for the rest of the games."

He gave a grim nod. "Yeah. Question is... why?"

After a moment, he seemed to come back to himself. "I wanted to thank you both. New mercenaries are always a headache for command—half the time, we don't know if they'll hold the line or bolt the second things get grim. But you two stepped up. Without your interference, I fear the other team might have succeeded today."

Fen raised an eyebrow at the unexpected note of gratitude, but Desmond just offered a faint nod and a tired smile before turning and heading back toward the command station.

As Fen watched him go, he leaned on the railing again, his thoughts drifting. For a moment, he wondered if the cost of all this—the spectacle, the strategy, the blood—was ever measured in anything but credits or corpses. Judging by the stains still darkening the deck, he doubted it.

Seraph nudged him lightly with her elbow. "Guess that means we're doing something right."

Fen huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Either that, or they're more desperate than they're letting on." He glanced toward the forward deck, where officers moved like pieces on a board. "One hour into the war and we're already patching holes and counting dead. Fisck talks like he's got this all under control, but if this is his idea of a winning start... I'm not buying it."

Seraph didn't argue.

Above them, the low thunder of engines deepened. The remaining heavy fliers—massive, gunmetal-gray escorts—had moved into formation. Four of them now flanked the Legacy, fanned out in a tight, staggered arc. It wasn't just a show of strength. It was insurance.

The sun had slipped lower in the sky, casting the jungle below in molten gold. According to the flight crew, just under an hour remained before arrival. Fen watched as the dense green gave way to sharp ridgelines and jagged stone—rocky outcroppings punching through the canopy like crooked teeth.

Then he saw it.

The fortress loomed ahead, suspended in the air like a divine afterthought. Its base was a broken mass of stone, like a mountain had been torn from the earth and lifted skyward by impossible force. Cracks and channels ran through the foundation, glowing with faint cerulean light that pulsed like a heartbeat—slow, steady, alive.

Above the rock rose the castle, its gothic spires reaching toward the sky like dark talons. The walls were slate gray, their surfaces weathered to give the impression of age, though Fen knew it was likely calculated—designed to exude gravitas. Towering cathedral windows pierced the structure, their stained glass pulsing with strange warmth. The windows depicted intricate scenes—knights in golden armor, fierce battles, and abstract swirls of light and shadow—that caught the fading sunlight and fractured it into dazzling colors. Each pane rivaled the cathedrals of old Earth, a testament to whoever had transfigured it into this masterpiece.

The entire fortress hummed—a deep vibration like a hidden engine. It wasn't loud, but it was insistent, like the thrumming of a massive engine kept just out of sight. The sound set his teeth on edge, a reminder that no matter how beautiful the facade, this was still a machine—a machine built for war.

Fen let out a low whistle, leaning forward against the railing. "That," he said, his voice quiet, "is something."

Seraph stepped up beside him, her gaze tracing the towering spires. "Looks like it belongs in a storybook. A dark, messed-up one."

Desmond and Fisck approached, Desmond flashing his usual grin as he stepped beside them. "It should be," he said, his tone light but tinged with pride. "The finest transmutation credits can buy. What do you think?"

Fen's gaze lingered on the defenses, the fortress's hum still thrumming in his chest. "I think it burns through profit margins faster than the soldiers stationed here," he said dryly. "Probably a lot faster."

Desmond chuckled, leaning against the railing. "Ah, Fen, always the optimist." He gestured toward the looming structure. "This beauty? Used to be a standard colony research vessel. But back in the early cycles of the games, Fisck commissioned a full transfiguration suite. Rebuilt the whole thing from the ground up—anchored it right here in the Verdant Expanse. What you're seeing now is the result of years of tuning. The floating monolith, the castle aesthetic, the arcane vibes? They were all deliberate."

Seraph tilted her head. "So it's permanent?"

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"As permanent as anything in the SynthNet," Desmond said with a grin. "The Verdant Expanse is one of the fixed zones in the Citadel. It stays in place between cycles. Players and teams can come and go, hold meetings, stage skirmishes, or just show off their assets—but during the Wars, this fortress becomes a formal set piece. Any team could choose it as a base."

"Could?" Fen echoed.

Desmond nodded. "Yeah. Could. But they don't. This place has been ours since Cycle Three of the games almost ten cycles now. Fisck helped fund the infrastructure back when the Wars were still theory. Technically it's open, but in practice? They know it's ours."

He swept his hand across the jagged walls and glowing towers. "What you're really looking at is a fortress with full self-sustainment. There are crop fields inside the central ring, barracks tucked beneath the surface platforms, launch bays, hangars, civilian quarters, and corporate suites. It's not just for show."

"And the defenses?" Fen asked.

"Oh, the defenses," Desmond said, his grin widening. "Let's just say you'll sleep well tonight."

"Unless someone shows up with firepower to match the budget," Seraph muttered.

"Unless that," Desmond admitted, clapping her on the shoulder.

The deck was a whirlwind of activity as the airship neared its docking point. Crew members shouted commands over the roar of machinery, ropes were thrown and caught, and the whine of mechanical clamps echoed through the air. Overhead, the escort fliers peeled away from formation, banking off toward distant hangar spires—silent, practiced, and unnervingly efficient.

Near the prow, a familiar shape stirred—Petrie, the drake, shifting groggily where he'd dozed through the flight. His wings gave a lazy flick as he blinked at the chaos around him, clearly unimpressed.

Seraph flagged down a passing dockhand. "That drake near the front," she said, pointing. "Name's Petrie. Take good care of him, alright? I like the little guy. Can you stable him with the other fliers, wherever that is?"

The dockhand raised a brow at little, then glanced at the not-so-little reptile.

"And maybe don't get too close while he's waking up," she added with a smirk. "Pretty sure he'll take a finger if you're rude."

The dockhand looked wary but nodded, jogging off toward the prow.

The gangplanks finished extending with a sharp hiss, locking into place as the fortress's docking bay portal began to close behind them, swallowing the airship—it felt like the craft and crew were being entombed.

Fen and Seraph disembarked, their boots striking polished stone with a faint echo. The cavernous interior of the docking bay stretched before them, lined with faintly shimmering force fields and arcane lights. Behind them, the engines of the airship powered down, leaving a silence that made the fortress's hum feel louder—and heavier.

Seraph crossed her arms, eyes scanning the expanse of their new base. "Well, this is… a lot."

"Understatement of the cycle," Fen said, his tone dry. "Guess we'd better not get lost."

Desmond smirked as he passed, clipboard tucked under his arm again. "If you do, don't expect me to come looking. Busy man, you know."

Fen rolled his eyes but followed, his thoughts circling back to the earlier ambush and the price of all this grandeur. The longer he walked, the more the walls seemed to close in—not physically, but in presence. There was no breeze, no fluctuation in temperature, not even the distant murmur of a crowd. Just controlled stillness and the low, constant thrum of systems too big to see. It gave him the sense that the fortress was watching them back. It was a creeping tension that crawled beneath the skin.

As the impenetrable-looking docking bay doors sealed behind them with a resounding thud, Fisck gestured for Fen and Seraph to follow. His sharp movements betrayed his usual polish, as if his mind was already on the next task. "Walk with me," he said. "A drink and a discussion of the days ahead seems appropriate."

Desmond fell in step beside them, his grin more relaxed now that they were off the ship. "The boss and I figured you'd want to see more of the place before we begin to plan in earnest in the boss's chambers," he said, his tone lighter. "Worth the stroll."

The corridor beyond the docking bay stretched long and shadowed, lined with towering walls of dark stone. Tapestries hung between wrought-iron sconces, threads catching faint glints of light. Each tapestry told a story—battles won, alliances forged, and triumphs over faceless foes.

"Medieval chic," Fen muttered under his breath, his gaze flicking to a particularly grim tapestry of knights skewering a ship-sized serpent. "Because nothing says tactical superiority like cosplay and propaganda."

Seraph elbowed him lightly. "I'm sure it's all very practical. Nothing inspires loyalty like art that reminds you how replaceable you are."

Fisck glanced back but said nothing, his silence more telling than any retort.

They passed through an archway into a vast chamber that hummed with life. The space was a training ground, its floor worn smooth by countless drills. Rows of soldiers sparred under the watchful eyes of instructors, their blades clashing in a discordant rhythm. Beyond them, archers loosed bolts at moving targets, the sharp thunk of impact echoing off the stone walls.

Fen's steps slowed for just a second, his gaze lingering on the flow of the routines. The soldiers were better—crisper, more focused—but the rhythm of instruction, the cycle of strike and correction, took him back. He remembered the tutorial zone's packed courtyards and half-bored trainees flailing with practice blades, the way even the clumsiest player could be coaxed into competence with enough patience and time.

It made him think of Missus Organa—her calm presence, her quiet wisdom. She'd given the old grind meaning, made even the worst routines feel like they were building toward something real. This place was the opposite. All sharp rhythm and curated obedience, no room for softness. She would've hated it. The kind of place she'd call a factory of discipline—cold, efficient, and proud of it. Discipline's fine, boy… but don't let it grind the humanity out of you. His throat tightened. She was gone now. Another voice the system had buried. But that kind of lesson—the way she saw people— still clung to him, even here.

Desmond's voice snapped him back to the present. "Our troops get daily drills, no exceptions. Keeps them sharp. The barracks are just beyond that far door," he said, pointing to a reinforced archway. "Accommodations aren't luxurious, but they're comfortable enough to keep morale steady."

Fen gave a short nod, his gaze still tracking the sparring soldiers. "As long as comfort doesn't dull the edge. I've seen too many get soft between fights."

Desmond waved a hand. "That's why the drills never stop. These aren't rookies—they're top-tier soldiers, best we've got in the Division army. And if that's ever not enough, they've got the fortress backing them—turrets, shields, layered defenses. The whole package."

Fen tilted his head slightly. "Sure. But how confident are you they'll hold if someone really tries to break through?"

Fisck's lips curled into a faint smile. "Very. You saw the outer runes, but that's just the welcome mat. There are deeper wards, automated defenses, energy barriers, and a few... classified measures we keep in reserve."

Fen's gaze lingered on the sparring troops. "Guess I'll sleep better once I've seen them in action."

The group moved on, ascending a spiraling staircase that led to another level of the fortress. The air felt cooler here, the dim light from cathedral-like stained glass windows casting colorful patterns onto the stone floors. Fen caught glimpses of private living quarters through open doors—comfortable but spartan rooms, lined with dark wood and accented by soft, glowing crystal sconces.

"This floor is reserved for officers and specialists," Fisck said, his voice echoing faintly. "You'll find the armory, strategy chambers, and communications hub here as well."

"Efficient layout," Seraph noted, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "How long did it take to transmute all this?"

Desmond whistled low. "Months. Fisck had it built back in one of the early Division War cycles—before structures like this were common. Cost a fortune. The kind of investment that makes other teams green with envy."

"Or red with blood," Fen murmured.

Desmond raised a brow but didn't argue.

After a few more turns in the passageway, they arrived at a set of double doors carved with interlocking runes. Fisck pressed a palm to the center sigil, and the doors swung open with a low, resonant hum.

His chambers were a stark contrast to the fortress's militarized halls. Lavish, yes—plush armchairs, a polished desk inlaid with glowing crystal, and shelves lined with meticulously arranged books—but utilitarian at its core. Even the decadence served a purpose. Maps adorned the walls with surgical precision. A sleek bar waited in the corner, not for comfort, but calculation.

Fisck gestured toward a seating area near the far wall, where a decanter of amber liquid and three glasses sat waiting. "Make yourselves comfortable. We have much to discuss."

Fen's eyes lingered on the maps, already tracing routes, flanks, fallback lines. His fingers itched to get to the table—get to the real work. The part that mattered.

Seraph dropped into the nearest chair with a soft huff as she looked around the room's lavish trappings. "Shiny," she said with a smirk. "But not quite what I expected from someone who talks so much about efficiency."

Fisck's smile was thin as he poured the drinks. "Even the most efficient tools require maintenance, Ms. Seraph. I prefer mine in optimal condition."

Fen remained standing, leaning on the back of a chair, his gaze still sweeping the room. "Enough preamble. What's the actual objective? Scouting? Holding ground? Or something more decisive?"

Fisck turned, drink in hand, his expression sharpening. "We didn't come here just to survive, Mr. Fenris. We came to dominate. The mission is simple—neutralize all enemy forces, secure the Expanse. Anything less, and we lose more than just our lives. We lose face."

Fen arched an eyebrow. "So… a full campaign."

Fisck raised his glass. "A statement," he said. "Total war. Total victory."