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

Fen woke with a start, the last echoes of his dream still clawing at the edges of his mind. Talons raked through memory, phantom wings tearing across a burning sky. The heat of drake fire still lingered on his skin, too vivid to be dismissed. He blinked hard, staring at the stone ceiling above, where flickering torchlight cast restless, shifting shadows.

Hope and dread waged quiet war inside him. The warmth of last night's bond—of trust shared, of lives tethered—still glowed faintly in his chest. But it was fighting an uphill battle against everything else: the violence, the dreams, the impossible truths Auri had unearthed, and the looming uncertainty of their next move. Too much, too fast, with too many lives depending on choices he barely understood.

He inhaled slowly, grounding himself.
One foot in front of the other, Fen. That's all there is, he thought.

Across the room, Seraph stirred. The old bed creaked as she sat up, cracking one eye open with a groggy squint.

"You look like fried circuits," she said dryly. "Did you sleep that poorly?"

"Rough night," Fen muttered, rubbing his temples like he could scrub the lingering static out of his skull. "Any chance you've got coffee hidden somewhere in this fortress of efficiency?"

"Sadly, no," Seraph sighed, stretching with a theatrical groan. The quiet pop of her joints punctuated her next words. "System only let me bring five items, remember? Daggers made the cut. Coffee didn't. And believe me—I regret that choice more every morning."

Fen let out a soft groan and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I'm not asking for much—just something caffeinated to start the day."

"Well, you're in luck," Seraph said, smirking. "Fisck strikes me as more of a 'tea and condescension' kind of guy. Probably brews a mean Earl Grey—steeped in judgment."

Fen snorted, the faintest grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, probably steeped in equal parts judgment and overconfidence."

Before he could add more, a sharp, rapid knock at the door snapped both of them to attention.

Seraph was on her feet in an instant, hand on one of the daggers she kept close. Fen grabbed his umbral blade from the floor beside his bed, rising into a ready crouch. He shot her a questioning look.

She shrugged, already gliding toward the door, silent and poised.

Fen called out, "Who is it?"

"It's Desmond," came the familiar voice from the other side. "Put the blades down—unless you're actually planning to stab me. In which case, I'll come back later."

Desmond leaned against the doorframe, his usual grin in place—but something behind it was tighter than normal. "Morning, sunshine," he said lightly. "Scouts are back. Fisck wants everyone in the officers' briefing room. Whatever they found, it's important. He wants us sharp."

Seraph raised an eyebrow, arms folding across her chest. "How did you know we were armed?"

Desmond's smile widened. "I've known you both, what—one day? That's more than enough. You strike me as the stab-first, negotiate-later type. Besides," he added with a shrug, "you don't last long around here without learning to read people."

Fen snorted and stepped forward, slipping the last strap into place on his gear. "Scouts are already back? That was fast."

"I caught them on the way in," Desmond said, pushing off the frame. "They didn't give details, just said they found something worth waking the whole command tier for. Fisck's already moving. Come on—we need to be there five minutes ago."

He turned, boots echoing faintly in the hallway. Fen and Seraph traded a glance.

"Ready?" Fen asked, securing his cloak.

"Always," Seraph replied, her posture relaxed but her eyes already tracking the path ahead.

They followed Desmond into the corridor. The hum of the fortress systems pulsed quietly beneath their feet, a low and constant rhythm against the polished stone.

The door to the briefing room hissed open.

Fen and Seraph stepped inside—and were immediately greeted by the unmistakable aroma of synth coffee, rich and nutty with a faintly sweet, too-perfect edge. Beside the dispenser, a pot of tea let off a gentle curl of steam, the sharp citrus scent of Earl Grey threading through the air.

Seraph nudged Fen and pointed wordlessly toward the pot, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"Called it," she said smugly.

A small spread of breakfast refreshments had been laid out on a sleek sideboard: trays of flaky pastries glistening under a light sugar glaze, their golden edges crisp and inviting. Platters of sliced fruit gleamed like polished gems beneath the bright overhead lights, and the air held a faint, citrusy bite. A selection of protein bars, each wrapped in stark, utilitarian packaging, stood in contrast to the more indulgent offerings. The scent of synth coffee hung in the air, rich and slightly acrid, mingling with the soft murmur of voices as officers gathered around the central holo-table.

At the far end of the room, three figures stood in quiet conversation—two in scout armor, one in heavier command gear. Fen clocked them as he entered, a flicker of familiarity settling in. Recon returnees, most likely. The tall one in the middle—clearly a commanding presence—was built like a fortress, standing with that particular kind of stillness that said he didn't need to raise his voice to be heard.

Fen's eyes drifted to the food, and he moved almost unconsciously toward the pastries.

"Fresh food. Thank the code," he muttered, grabbing a plate and selecting one with almost reverence. It was still warm—his fingers sank slightly into the flaky crust. "Fisck really does know how to set a mood."

He took a bite, eyes briefly closing. Even now, it still surprised him—how real it tasted. He thought back to something Auri had said, back when they'd first talked about the old SynthNet. How, in the early builds, there'd been debates over whether NPCs even needed food. Someone had made the call: yes. NPCs should eat. Should taste. Should feel it all, just like players.

Bless 'em for that, Fen thought. Because Auri had been right: Real always hit different.

Seraph poured herself a cup of coffee nearby, scooping up a handful of fruit with a pleased hum. "No complaints here. Food this fresh? Still warm? Might be the last time we get that luxury for a while."

Desmond approached with a coffee cup in hand, his movements casual—but his eyes never stopped moving, like he was already a step ahead of whatever briefing was coming.

"The scouts brought back some solid intel," he said, glancing toward the trio by the holo-table. "No full debrief yet, but they said it's worth waking half the chain of command. Fisck wants us looped in early."

He gestured with his cup. "Come on—let me introduce the stars of the morning."

As they stepped closer, the three broke from their conversation. The shorter of the two scouts stood straighter at their approach, a cocky grin already forming.

Desmond nodded toward his side. "This is Fenris and Seraph—our newest additions to the funhouse." His tone was light, but there was pride behind it. "Try not to bet against them unless you like losing money."

He turned to the others. "And this is Rena Kort and Davin Theal—our recon leads. Rena's eyes in the sky, Davin's the poor bastard crawling through the mud."

Rena gave a curt nod. Her short-cropped hair and squared stance projected cool efficiency. "Pleasure," she said—low, confident, clipped.

Davin let out a soft chuckle, adjusting the strap of his gear bag. "He means I get all the fun jobs—tight ducts, enemy trenches, you know. While Rena gets to sightsee."

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Rena rolled her eyes, but didn't deny it.

Desmond continued, gesturing to the imposing figure nearby. "And this is Battalion Lord Bruan Bushi."

The commander stepped forward with a quiet nod. His combat armor was polished but well-worn—the kind of gear that had survived more battles than it had any right to. Faint scarring traced the plating like memory etched in metal. His features were angular and still—neutral, but never disinterested. Jet-black hair, dark and unnaturally silky for a man likely in his fifties, gave him a strangely ageless quality—like the years had sharpened him, not worn him down.

Bruan inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Fenris. Seraph. I'll be leading the assault based on our scouts' report." His voice was steady, measured. "I've heard good things about you both."

Fen lifted his mug in a casual salute. "Here's to hoping we live up to expectations."

Seraph mirrored the gesture, a crooked smile playing at her lips. "And to hot breakfasts."

Bruan gave a low chuckle, sharing a brief look with Desmond. "I like them already."

The group took their seats around the planning table. A quiet tension settled in as the faint hum of the holo-display filled the room. Rena leaned forward, adjusting the controls with practiced ease. The map shimmered into focus—terrain rendered in crisp relief, each ridge and canyon etched in simulated shadow.

"This is what we're looking at," she said, voice steady with the clipped edge of someone used to delivering fast intel. A cluster of red markers lit up across a river crossing. "Forward position—heavily manned, looks like the main threat on first pass. But the real problem?"

She zoomed the display southeast, shifting the focus to a narrow canyon flanked by rising cliffs. Another concentration of red dots lit up—less obvious, more concealed.

"Here," she said. "They're dug in tight. No movement aboveground, no sign of supply caravans. Every scouting party came back half-blind—like the canyon's wrapped in some kind of veiling spell. Someone doesn't want us seeing what's really down there."

Davin leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Can't lie—I made out like a bandit," he said, nodding toward Fen. "Most of the battalion thought your call was a stretch. But I figured if Desmond vouched for you, there had to be something to it."

Fen, still scanning the map, glanced up. "Appreciate the faith."

Rena gave him a long look. "You earned it. Dead-on. They're right where you said they'd be." She hesitated for half a breath. "Honestly? Little creepy how precise it was."

Davin smirked. "We were taking bets when the recon orders dropped. Half the squad figured you were chasing ghosts. Should've seen their faces when we came back with confirmation." He shot Desmond a look. "Next time, maybe let the boys in on what you already know. Would've saved 'em some coin."

Desmond sipped his coffee, unbothered. "Lesson learned."

Seraph raised her mug slightly. "Glad to know our instincts are boosting morale and stimulating the local economy."

Davin chuckled. "Hey, credits keep boots fast and eyes sharp. You two keep calling shots like that, and I'll be able to retire early."

Rena, still watching Fen, tilted her head. "But really, sir—how did you know?"

Fen leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "First off, call me Fen. 'Sir' is for sergeants."

She gave a faint smirk, but her gaze didn't waver.

He tapped the canyon on the map. "I looked at the terrain. That river crossing? Too clean. Narrow approaches, high banks, a natural chokepoint—it practically invites a fight. So if I wanted to stage a trap, that's exactly where I'd put a visible force. Just enough to tempt an attacker to commit."

He shifted the display slightly. "But if I wanted to win that fight, I'd tuck the real strike force here—down in the canyon. Out of sight, tight quarters, hard to flank. The second the enemy's locked into the crossing, you hit them from the side and bury the whole line."

Rena gave a slow nod. "So the troops at the crossing are just bait. That's why they're visible."

"Exactly."

Desmond let out a quiet breath. "Which raises the real question—who's setting the bait?"

Bruan's gaze stayed locked on the map. "Could be Wolf. He's always had a knack for misdirection. Smart enough to plan a layered ambush like this, especially after the hit he took yesterday."

Desmond grunted. "I'll admit, I didn't think he had this many troops left to field. After that failed air assult on the Legacy, I figured he'd be licking his wounds."

Fen said nothing, but his thoughts churned. Or someone else made sure he had reinforcements. Someone who doesn't care about game rules.

Seraph leaned in, brow raised. "A warlord who thinks like Fen. Just what the SynthNet needs—two of you running around."

Fen arched a brow. "Is that a compliment or a warning?"

Seraph grinned. "Depends if he can fight as well as he thinks."

Bruan's mouth twitched into the faintest smirk. "In either case, we'll need to plan carefully. A strategist who hides his teeth is more dangerous than one who bares them."

Fen nodded, eyes flicking back to the map, thoughts racing. No doubt it's the Wolf they know. But if he's this dangerous alone… what happens if the Spyders are backing him?

Bruan crossed his arms. His voice was low, steady. "So we plan like we're already losing ground."

Braun gestured for Rena to adjust the holo display, zooming to a tighter section of the map he said. "Then we hit them first—before the noose tightens."

Fen exhaled through his nose. "That's what I was thinking. Alright—what else did you find?"

Davin leaned in, resting his arms on the table. "I got dropped near the canyon wall—mid-flight, courtesy of our charming pilot over here," he said, nodding at Rena.

She lifted a brow. "Not my fault you've got weak little arms."

Davin shot her a look. "Not my fault you fly like there's a bonus for every G pulled."

Rena just shrugged. "Maybe there is."

Davin turned back to the display, tapping a marked section. "Getting in was rough. They've got watchers tucked in the trees and old farmhouse ruins—low profile, dressed like patrols. Not your typical sentries. Hidden enough to make you second-guess if you even saw them. Took some work to slip past."

He zoomed the map farther into the canyon interior. "Once I made it in, I got a better look. The force there is smaller than the one at the river—but a hell of a lot more dangerous. Augment suits, flight rigs, walkers. No basic infantry. Just high-tier, high-mobility units. It's not a wall. It's a scalpel. And if they're the ones springing the trap, it's gonna be fast—and brutal."

A few quiet murmurs rippled through the room.

"I'd estimate five to seven hundred at the bridge," Davin said, tapping the canyon again. "Maybe another three to four hundred in the canyon. But with that kind of gear, they'll punch way above their weight. You drop a thousand troops thinking it's a fair fight—and just when the tide turns, the canyon force flanks and turns the whole thing into a bloodbath."

Another silence followed. Heavier this time.

Rena exchanged a glance with Davin, then looked to Bruan. "Sir… there's something else. We weren't sure we should even bring it up—we can't be certain—but based on what I saw from the air, and what Davin saw on the ground… we think these are troops from two different armies."

Davin nodded. "It wasn't obvious. They tried to hide it. But I spotted officers that match Wolf's roster—and Rena swears she saw a few from Skarne's unit. She's fought them before."

"We didn't want to jump to conclusions," Rena added, "but you should know. Just in case."

Desmond froze. "Two armies? That's not done. Not in the Expanse." His gaze swept the table. "Would the crystal even allow that?"

A beat passed. His eyes narrowed. "Of course it would. This year of all years."

He turned to Fen and Seraph. "In all the cycles we've fought, even though it's not technically illegal, a truce like this has never happened. Never."

Bruan's expression darkened. "If my scouts are right, then this isn't just a trap—it's a power play. And if we engage, we don't just win a skirmish. We cripple two rival armies on Day One. Fisck will demand we strike. My only concern is how many lives we'll lose doing it."

Desmond exhaled, rubbing a hand through his hair. "That's the problem, isn't it? We don't have the numbers to overwhelm them outright. Seventeen hundred total—strong by Division War standards—but only a thousand combat-ready here at the Bastion. Another two hundred are green backups. The last five hundred are still dockside at the edge of the Expanse, scheduled to offload tomorrow."

Fen crossed his arms. "So: a thousand veterans, two hundred rookies, and five hundred we can't touch yet."

"Exactly. And I know Fisck—he'll roll the dice. He won't pass up a chance to knock two names off the board before the war even starts in earnest. He just won't care what it costs."

Fen tapped his mug. "Then we give Fisck what he wants—a victory. We just make sure it doesn't cost us our vanguard. Where's the Legacy?"

Desmond blinked. "Docked after dropping us off last night. Still loading supplies and the reserve troops. Scheduled to stay through tomorrow."

Fen nodded. "Good. Because if the air ambush proved anything—and if you do have a leak—then the enemy already expects it to stay there."

Desmond's eyes narrowed.

Fen leaned in. "If you skipped the offloading and just took on the essentials—how fast could the Legacy reach the canyon?"

"Two, maybe three hours," Desmond said slowly. "But the troops aboard aren't geared for battle."

"We're not using it to bring more troops," Fen replied, voice steady. "They'll be watching for reinforcements, not… what we'll be sending."

It clicked. Desmond straightened, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "You sly bastard."

He rose, pulling his comm free, then glanced at Bruan.

"General. Start mobilizing. We'll need a thousand of our best on standby and the support crew armed for reserve. Transport ready in one hour. Assault begins in three."

Bruan's smirk was grim. "Done. I'll see they're ready to march."

Desmond keyed the comm. "Fisck. We've got an update—and an opportunity you're going to want in on."

The room stirred with sudden motion—orders flying, aides rushing, the murmur of strategy tightening into urgency. One by one, more officers and generals began to file in, drawn by the commotion, the air thick with expectation.

Fen exhaled, settling back as the storm gathered. One hour—two at most, if they finished planning en route. That was all the time they had to forge this rough outline into a strategy worth betting lives on. Now came the hard part: hammering it into something that could win a war.