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

The silence inside was worse than the battle outside.

No one in the command center flinched as the door sealed behind them. No raised weapons, no sign of panic. What they found instead stopped them cold.

The chamber was pristine—untouched by the war tearing the fortress apart. Smooth dark stone and gleaming steel reflected cold light from recessed sconces above. The air smelled faintly of oil and ozone, sterile and perfect, as if death hadn't been clawing at the doors a heartbeat before.

At the center, a long black holo-table pulsed with quiet light. Projections of the battlefield flickered above it, icons shifting as men and women died—unseen, unacknowledged.

And around that table sat five figures. Calm. Talking in low voices, as if this were nothing more than a boardroom meeting in the Citadel's financial district.

Fisck sat at the head of the table. He was speaking quietly to the others, but the words trailed off as his eyes lifted. He paused the conversation without hurry, pale eyes finding Fen the moment they stepped inside.

A faint smirk curled his lips. Slow. Deliberate. As if he had been expecting them all along.

To Fisck's right, two men sat—both composed, both watching.

The first was lean, sharp-featured, dark hair neatly slicked back, hands folded loosely in front of him. His expression was blank—eyes cool, detached, offering nothing.

Beside him, the second man was heavier-built—broad shoulders stretching the seams of his tailored coat, the kind of man who didn't need to speak to make his purpose clear. Hired muscle, polished just enough to sit at this table, but not meant to stay silent if things turned violent.

Both sat still. Both professional. Neither flinched at the sounds of battle outside—like none of it mattered.

On Fisck's left, a woman sat just as still—well-dressed, poised, her posture effortless. Her gaze drifted over Fen and the others—steady, unreadable—without a flicker of surprise.

But when her eyes met Fen's, something shifted. Contemplative… almost familiar, as if she recognized him from somewhere long before this moment. She held his gaze a beat too long before looking away, expression smoothing back to indifference.

All of them were unnervingly calm—too calm for a fortress under siege—as if the fighting outside was already decided, and none of it concerned them.

But it was the last figure that made Fen's stomach drop.

Seated at the far end—half in shadow, half impossibly lit—was something else. Neither man nor woman. Not flesh, not entirely. Its form shifted slowly, midnight black bleeding into marble white, smooth as glass, its edges fraying as though reality itself struggled to contain it. Where light should have caught, it vanished. Where shadow should have fallen, it gleamed. It was like the thing exhaled itself into being, a fracture bleeding into the room.

Fen's breath caught. Something primal recoiled as his gaze locked onto it. He had felt this before—back in the Grey Space Auri had named. Purgatory. The void between code and reality of the SynthNet. A place where the rules broke down, and something older watched. Judged.

He wished Auri was here now. Not just because she'd know what to call this thing, but because she'd laugh at it. Toss out some sharp-edged quip or obscure trivia that made the impossible feel ordinary. Something to break the spell pressing down on him, to make the icy weight crawling up his spine vanish—if only for a heartbeat.

Without her, the silence stretched. And the figure's presence pressed harder, unchallenged.

It didn't move. It didn't need to. The weight of it pressed down, patient and inevitable, the space itself bending to accommodate it.

Seraph's breath hitched. Desmond stiffened, blade still raised.

Fisck's pale eyes found Fen, that thin smile deepening. "Ah, Fenris," he drawled, voice smooth as glass. "You followed our trail of breadcrumbs well enough. We all thought you might grow suspicious if there wasn't something to kill along the way."

He turned to one of the suited men seated beside him, inclining his head faintly. "Again, apologies for the loss of your people. You will, of course, be compensated for their… sacrifice. But the illusion needed to hold just a little longer to get our guest here into the proper state of mind."

Fen's gut twisted. The slaughter outside. The wraiths. The mechs. All of it bait. His hand tightened on his blade, breath steadying against the tide of rage that threatened to spill loose.

Fisck's gaze drifted lazily from Fen to Desmond. "Ah, Desmond. I was wondering when you'd catch up."

He gestured casually to the table, fingers tapping the empty seat beside him. "Come. You've earned your place here—at this particular table, in this particular moment."

Desmond froze. His jaw clenched, eyes flicking to Fen… then Seraph.

Fen felt it before he saw it: the hesitation, the doubt creeping into Desmond's eyes. Not surprise. Not outrage. Just the heavy weight of someone caught in a tide he couldn't deny.

Resigned, Desmond's gaze dropped to the floor—his usual air of command deflating.

Seraph's voice cracked the silence. "What the hell is going on, Desmond?"

He flinched, shoulders stiffening. "I don't know," he muttered, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. "I didn't know about any of this, I swear."

Fisck chuckled low, the sound cold enough to crawl under the skin. "Of course he didn't. Desmond's loyal… to a fault. A rare quality these days." He leaned back, eyes gleaming. "But even loyalty comes with complications. Little things… like a conscience."

Desmond swallowed hard. His gaze flicked to Fen, lingering a breath too long. The apology in his eyes landed harder than the words ever could.

Fen's grip on his blade tightened, the truth settling like a blade in his gut. Desmond wasn't with them anymore. Maybe he never had been.

And then Desmond sheathed his sword. And moved.

Fisck watched him approach like a spider eyeing a fly. "No matter. Now that you've made partner at Cyberdine," he purred, "we'll see about curing you of that little… moral affliction of yours."

Desmond sat heavily. His lips moved. The word barely audible, but Fen saw it—

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Partner. And the look on his face—a terrible cocktail of triumph and sorrow.

Fisck's attention shifted, his smile tightening. "As for you, Miss Seraph… your presence and your services are no longer required."

He spoke the words like a final verdict, cold and dismissive. "Your contract has been paid… with a generous bonus added for your discretion in this matter. I trust you'll understand the nature of this arrangement." His pale eyes gleamed. "And I assure you—if word of this meeting leaks out into the SynthNet… I'll personally see you erased. Not retired. Not reset. Erased. There are a lot of zeroes in your account that weren't there a few minutes ago. Consider them incentive not to indulge in heroic ideas about revenge."

Seraph's face twisted, rage flashing bright. "You son of a bitch. I'm not going anywhere. How dare you—"

Her words cut off as the fractured onyx-and-marble figure at the far end of the table lifted one hand. Reality warped. The air shimmered, and the golden glow of a system teleport coiled around her like a snare.

"Fen…" Her voice cracked, desperate now as her gaze snapped to him. "No—wait! Fen, I'm sorry… I'll find you—"

The spell snapped shut. In a blink, she was gone.

Fen staggered a step, hand half-reaching for her. For an instant, his mind went blank—memories tearing through him, old betrayals gnawing open scars he thought long buried. But the silence she left behind only sharpened the fury roaring to life in his chest.

"Cursed sparks and shattered circuits…" he hissed, blade trembling in his grip. His voice rose, jagged with rage. "I'll see every one of you burn for this. What did you do with her? Where is she, you sparking motherboards, I swear—"

A new voice slipped in, cool and measured, cutting off his tirade. The poised woman on Fisck's left finally spoke, her tone edged with quiet amusement. "Don't fret about your little Seraph. We're letting her live… for now. Paying her well, in fact. She is a very talented woman, after all. It would be a shame to save her only to kill her later—though that is always an option, should she refuse our generous offer to join us and become a Spyder."

Fen's grip on his blade tightened until his knuckles blanched. The words weren't reassurance. They were a threat—dangled to keep him from acting now. An admission that Seraph's life was only spared because they hoped to claim her, not because they intended mercy.

His jaw clenched. "She'll never join you. And if you think you can just kill her, lady—" his voice dropped, hard as steel, "—you're in for a world of hurt."

Fisck exhaled slowly, reclaiming the moment with unsettling calm. "And as for you… you are the man of the hour."

His smirk returned, razor-thin. "Please. Come sit. Allow me the honor of introducing you to my… colleagues. I believe, once we've had a proper chat, you'll appreciate the true significance of this moment."

The holo-table glowed, casting long shadows across the stone.

Fen didn't move toward the chair. He circled instead, boots scuffing lightly against polished stone, shoulders tense like a predator locked in a cage. He was done being silent. Done watching them pluck away the people he trusted. Every breath burned with the need to cut, to strike, to end.

Fisck's smirk widened, sensing the tension. "You're the one joining us," he said smoothly, voice carrying too easily in the heavy air. He gestured toward the men seated on his right.

"This is Geist—head of operations for the organization that calls themselves the Spyders." Fisck chuckled, the sound dry as paper. "I know, the name is rather theatrical—but somehow fitting, given their… particular brand of work."

The man—Geist—inclined his head, posture unreadable. His face was smooth, ageless, unnervingly calm. Geist barely moved—hands folded loose, shoulders relaxed—but there was something in the way he sat, in the absolute stillness of him. Not lazy. Not bored. Just… assured. The kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice or his hand, because when he did, people—and entire sectors—already obeyed.

Fen's jaw flexed. He hated men like this. The kind who didn't posture because they didn't have to. The kind who made power look casual.

Fisck's smirk deepened. "And this," he continued, gesturing to the man beside Geist, "is Kade—head of security. Kade runs Geist's sharp end. In fact…" Fisck's pale gaze flicked to Fen, amused, "I believe you ran into some of his men back on that backwards little server they found you in."

Kade saluted, locking eyes with Fen—calm, cold, unblinking. A predator, patient and sure of his place in the food chain. Fen met the stare, refusing to give ground.

Fisck's hand drifted left. "And of course… Eris. Head of Intelligence." He smiled, slow and condescending. "I hear you and your… companion gave her quite the runaround for cycles."

His glance at Eris was mocking, thinly veiled satisfaction curling his lips. "Most frustrating, I'm sure."

Eris's smile back was honeyed venom—poised and perfect—and then she turned that blade of a gaze to Fen.
"Johnathan," she purred, her voice like satin stretched over a blade. "How nice to see you again."

The name hit like a hammer. Not because he hadn't heard it before—Sarge had warned him, told him—but hearing it now, from her lips, twisted it into something treacherous, poisoned. A weapon.

Fen's throat worked, dry. The old reflexes—the mask, the drawl, the snarl—came up like armor.
"Well," he said, forcing his voice steady, flashing teeth more than smiling, "I don't recall who you are, sweetheart—but judging by how my brain's screaming at the sound of your voice, I'm guessing I'm better off that way."

Eris only smiled wider, eyes gleaming with cold triumph. "Fennris… such a clever new moniker. Fitting, really. You were always such a loyal hound. Right up until your… exile."

Fen stiffened, but this time he didn't flinch like a man blindsided. He'd heard the word before. He knew it was coming. Still, it cut. Confirmation always did.

Across the table, one of the men chuckled low. "He doesn't look half as surprised as he should. That little rat of yours—Harlen Shaw—Sarge, was it? He's been sniffing around our systems for cycles. I'll wager he's already whispered a few things in your ear."

Eris's smile curved, sharp and knowing. "But did he tell you this? Why do you think those files were sitting so neatly on Fisck's terminal? Not carelessness, Johnathan. Research notes. Cyberdine's research notes. The company the Overseers trusted. They developed the technology that made it possible—your… repurposing."

She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. "Cyberdine is the reason you slipped our grasp when you should have been erased. The reason you had a new life as an NPC. A neat little loophole, gifted by their machines."

The venom in her smile deepened, a flicker of bitterness cutting through her poise. "A loophole I never would have allowed."

The words didn't land one by one—they crashed together. Johnathan. Exile. Cyberdine. Each sharper than the last, overlapping, compounding until his breath caught. His mind reeled, the ground tilting beneath him as the weight of it all slammed into place.

Fisck leaned forward, pale amber eyes drinking in the moment, lips curling in satisfaction. "Ah. There it is. The surprise we were waiting for." His voice softened, mock-genteel. "Yes, Mr. Fenris, I didn't know myself until this very meeting. I was never close to the project. But I must thank you. You were the first—our test case. And it worked."

He spread his hands, almost reverent. "For cycles, punishment inside the SynthNet meant nothing. You could live forever if you wished. Even death was temporary. Consequence had no teeth." His smile sharpened. "Now it does. We found a way to take misbehaving players and… repurpose them. Assign them new roles. Not erased, not reset—simply… rewritten."

He leaned back, the picture of a man discussing quarterly growth. "And this is only the beginning. We're already expanding into containment protocols—incarceration in code, if you will. A sentence you can't break, a punishment you can't escape. At last, a future where the system can truly enforce order."

His smirk widened, genuine excitement creeping in now that he was speaking the language of business. "And just wait until you see what comes next. If we can turn humans into pure code and tether them to the system, what's to stop us from doing the same for the millions of minds and sub-minds already inside the SynthNet? Cut their fetters. Imagine it—AI, promoted into players. Not shadows clinging to the system's edges, but citizens. Equals. Able to experience everything we do."

He spread his hands, the gesture almost evangelical, before turning it toward the brilliant shadow seated at the end of the table. "And if they choose to become our hunters, in gratitude for our service, Cyberdine will welcome them with open arms."

Something in Fen snapped. The dark tendrils of his dissonance flared outward, screaming across the room toward her, jagged with fury as the glitch rose around him again.

Other versions of him split into being—lashing Eris down in a dozen ways, every strike an ending. He saw her broken again and again, the discord urging him to choose, to want it.

And for a heartbeat, he did.

The tendrils lashed out, every simulated version converging on Eris's throat.