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

Darkness swallowed him.

Fen hit hard. The impact drove the breath from his lungs and sent a hot spike of pain lancing through his ribs. Dust and debris rained down in sheets, clattering off stone and steel. He groaned, rolled, and spat grit from his mouth as the world settled around him in choking silence.

"For server's sake," he rasped, one hand bracing against the cold stone as he forced himself upright. "Just my luck, I was nearly crushed by a mechanical Harambe. That is not how I'd choose to be taken out"

His body ached in layers—bone-deep bruises, strained muscles, the electric fire of a rolled ankle. Nearby, a twisted shape jutted from a mound of collapsed ceiling. His pulse rifle. Second only to his sword and sidearm, it had been his favorite piece of gear—balanced, reliable, the prized gem of his little collection. Now it was wrecked.

Fen limped over and pulled at the weapon, but the frame was bent beyond use. The barrel warped. The stock snapped clean through. Useless. He grunted in frustration, but spotted the scope—miraculously intact. It was quick-detach by design. He popped it free and stuffed it into a pouch on his belt. One less thing to leave behind.

He took stock of his surroundings through the settling haze. An old drainage level, maybe 15 feet below the refinery proper. Thick concrete walls lined the chamber, with drainage tunnels yawning open on either end like arteries. The air was damp, metallic. Ancient.

And beneath it all, something else. A sound. Not the comforting hum of distant machinery—but a noise that made his skin crawl.

Servos whined.

Strained and buckling. Beneath a mound of rubble, the mech twitched.

Its hydraulics hissed, struggling beneath the debris of collapsed metal and stone. A cracked panel near the cockpit glowed faintly—status lights pulsing like a wounded predator. Fen drew his blaster and fired twice, wincing as the recoil rattled through his sore wrist and shoulder. The fall had done a number on him, and while the pistol wasn't exactly high-caliber, his body wasn't in pristine condition either.

The shots sparked uselessly against the pilot's shield, which shimmered faintly around the cockpit. He hadn't noticed it during the clash above—too much chaos, too kinetic. Now it was obvious. And infuriating. A functional force mod was nearly priceless. Most were decades out of production, and even damaged units fetched more credits than most mercs would see in a year.

Through the flickering field, the pilot raised two fingers in a mocking salute, still smiling.

Fen scowled. "Of course it's shielded. Because yeah—why wouldn't this metallic murder monkey have one of the rarest mods in the system?"

He turned away before the mech could fully right itself. The thing was pinned for now, but it wouldn't stay that way. He knew it. The moment it got loose, it would tear this whole level apart looking for him.

His ankle throbbed with every step—twisted but not broken. He could still move. He had to.

"Alright, Fen," he muttered, limping toward the far end of the drainage culvert. "Let's see how fast you can hobble away from a thirty-ton death machine. Maybe there's a trophy for 'Most Pathetic Escape Attempt.'"

Up ahead, the old culvert tunnel opened up—half-collapsed but hopefully still passable. It probably led out toward the lake, or maybe back to the surface. A way out. A way to reach Auri. Assuming she was okay… he needed her to be alive and still fighting. She had to be.

He pushed the thought aside. No time for doubt. Not with that thing groaning back to life behind him.

Metal scraped against stone. The mech's frame shifted beneath the rubble, rising.

So much for a moment to breathe. Why couldn't the damn thing just stay down?

"Yeah," Fen muttered, dragging himself faster, ankle screaming with every step. "Would've been too easy if it actually stayed crushed. But hey, it wouldn't be a proper fight without a little fire and blood."

He risked a glance back. The mech was up—slow, deliberate, inevitable. Twin guns locked into place. Behind the shield, the pilot's face lit with something close to hunger, focused and eager, like a hunter savoring the final moment before the kill.

The tunnel yawned ahead—uncertain, but open. A way out. His only chance.

Fen pushed harder, stumbling into a desperate run. Pain flared with every jolt, but he kept going.

And behind him, the crescendo of spinning barrels.

"Frag, frag, frag..." he muttered, breath catching as he sprinted for the exit. Bullets were seconds away from shredding him like dried leaves.

Whoosh—BOOM!

The world erupted. A shockwave tore through the tunnel, hurling Fen through the damaged drainage opening. He slammed into the ground outside, skidding across gravel into the open air. For a moment, everything went white—then stars, spinning in his vision like a broken sky.

When his vision cleared, the mech was down on one knee just inside the tunnel, smoke pouring from its mangled cannons. One of the barrels hung twisted and blackened—partially torn free, warped by the blast. The fall must have misaligned the firing chamber. The resulting backfire had chewed through the casing like a frag grenade.

Fen barked a hoarse laugh and flipped the pilot a one-finger salute as he pushed himself upright, cursing, "That's why you always check your gear after a fall, you chipped motherboard."

The pilot raised one arm, and the mech mirrored him, reaching across its massive frame to wrench the shattered cannon free from its opposite arm. Metal screamed as it tore loose, then clattered away—discarded like trash. The pilot's eyes flicked down, assessing the limb beneath. Once a standard grip-assist actuator, it had been twisted by the blast into a brutal crown of jagged steel. Damaged, yes—but somehow, it looked even more dangerous now. His scowl curled into a slow, cold smile. The mech's mangled hand lifted, extending outward as the pilot pointed directly at Fen with silent, menacing promise.

"Oh, sparks…" Fen forced himself up and into a lurching run, heart hammering. His legs screamed in protest—slower now, worse than before.

Behind him, the mech charged—low and wild, like a demented metal gorilla tearing at the ground with all four limbs, each stride carving trenches in the stone. He didn't dare look back. He didn't need to. The sound of pursuit was deafening—thunder chasing thunder.

"Sparks and circuits, I am so fragged," he panted, ankle flaring with every step. He wasn't going to make it.

And then—awful, sudden silence. The mech surged forward, launching itself out of the tunnel in a single, brutal leap. It cleared the exit in a cloud of dust and smoke, hurtling into the open air of the loading yard—aimed squarely at Fen.

Fen dove.

A blur of motion… then an impact.

The mech jerked sideways mid-leap, as if yanked by an invisible force. A split second later, sound caught up to sight: a crack like the sky tearing itself in half. The hypersonic round had already hit by the time the shockwave rolled in.

Metal screamed. Limbs twisted. The mech tumbled end over end, sparks flying in every direction as it crashed hard into the stone. It landed in a heap, skidding across the cavern floor. Inside, blood smeared across the interior of the shield. The machine twitched once.

Then went still.

Fen lay on his side, breath ragged, heart still racing. The air reeked of scorched circuitry and burning oil. He didn't need to see the weapon to know what had done this. That was Tiny Tina.

Relief crashed over him like a breaking wave.

He pushed himself up to one knee, wincing, and tapped his comm as the static finally faded.

"Seraph... thank the old code. You scared me for a second—driving off like that. I knew you wouldn't leave but..." His voice caught, rough with leftover adrenaline.

Seraph's voice crackled in, confusion evident in her voice. "Yeah, Fen. Of course I wouldn't leave. That's why I told you to lure it outside while I set up the shot."

Fen let out a breathless laugh. "Must've missed that part through all the jamming. But hey, great timing. I almost had to give that monkey a very uncomfortable hug."

"Well, you know what they say about hugging gorillas," she replied. "It's not over 'til the monkey says it's over."

A third voice groaned faintly over the line.

"Apes…"

Fen and Seraph both startled at the voice. "Auri?" they said in unison.

Fen's heart soared as he heard her voice. "What was that, Auri?"

"Apes," she said again, faint and strained through static. "Gorillas… are apes. Not monkeys."

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Fen snorted. "Thanks. I'll be sure to cite my sources next time I'm about to get flattened by a simian simulacrum."

Auri's voice crackled back through the static—faint, but still hers. "I just… thought you should know. Apes. Not monkeys."

Fen shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping despite the ache in his ribs. "Appreciate the lesson. We'll put it on a quiz later." His voice dropped a note, concern threading through. "Auri... how bad is it? Are you okay?"

She hesitated. "I'm hanging in there. Still trying to pin down what this thing is." Her voice was tight, laced with strain. "It's... not done. I've got it boxed in, but it's fighting back—hard."

A pause, static rising behind her words.

"But never mind that right now. Where were you, Seraph?"

Fen let himself breathe for a moment, the last of the adrenaline finally ebbing. He thumbed his comm. "Yeah, Auri's right—where the hell did you go? I knew you wouldn't bail, but a little warning before taking off with our only ride would've been nice. Last thing I caught was you saying you were 'out of here.'"

Seraph's voice came through, wry and familiar. "I said to lure it outside. Maybe the jamming clipped that part."

Fen exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding out at the sound of her voice. "Yeah… that tracks."

"But you know me," Seraph went on. "I like to make an entrance. I needed space to line up a shot. Tina's not exactly the subtle type."

Fen blinked. Her earlier words resurfaced—give me a decent line of sight and five hundred meters—and a grin tugged at his mouth.

"Five hundred meters, huh?" he said, glancing back at the smoking wreckage of the mech. "Should've guessed when I heard that shot."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Next time, maybe go with a plan where I'm not the bait."

"Next time," Seraph shot back, "be better bait. Try running faster."

Fen took a knee, letting the silence settle for a beat. Then he thumbed his comm again, voice lighter now. "You heading back? Might as well regale us with the tale of how you vanished into the sunset and returned to be my savior."

Seraph's voice crackled through, dry and amused. "Yeah... about that."

Seraph's thoughts flashed back-

Earlier—Seraph had gunned the engine, making the split-second call that pulled her from the fight. She'd seen the mech turn on Fen, too fast, too close, and without thinking, she'd hit the throttle and shouted into the comms, "Good luck—hold tight until I'm set up for the shot—try to lure it outside."

She hadn't known the comms were jammed. She'd just driven.

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The truck jolted as she swerved around a crater—remnants of the fallen crane. Her eyes scanned the terrain, hunting elevation. She needed high ground. Enough distance to line up the shot. But not so far she'd lose her chance. It had to be fast. Fen was stalling death. She had to make it matter.

She caught movement in the rearview mirror, and her stomach dropped.

A hundred meters behind her, one of the soldiers hefted a launcher—ugly, cobbled from old war tech and back-alley mods, its plating etched with glowing circuit lines. The weapon looked stitched together from scrap and spite, pulse lights crawling like veins down the barrel.

"Ghosts and glitches... no, no, no," she muttered, white-knuckling the wheel.

The soldier fired.

The missile launched with a whoosh as the motors fired.

Seraph jerked the wheel hard. The truck skidded sideways, gravplates shrieking as they fought for control. A missile screamed past the window, its heat scalding the air before detonating nearby, showering the path with earth and shrapnel.

"Old code, that was close..."

There was no time to breathe.

In the mirror, two more soldiers came into view—each shouldering launchers lit with the same twisted glow, same intent to kill.

She floored it, engine howling in protest. "Come on, come on..." Her pulse pounded in sync with the rising hum of the drivetrain.

Two hundred meters.

She wanted five to give enough distance to lose herself from the fire team and line up a clean shot.

The two missiles shrieked toward her.

She floored it, the engine howling. "Come on, come on..." she hissed, knuckles white on the wheel. Her mind locked into focus, recon sim training kicking in as she calculated distance on instinct.

She spared another glance over her shoulder. The two missiles were corkscrewing through the air, contrails writhing like serpents. Their paths were locked, already zeroed in.

300 meters.

Seraph gritted her teeth. If she didn't shake the missiles soon, she'd never make the distance. She slammed the brakes—gravplates whining as the truck skidded to a bone-rattling stop. She was trading speed for survival, gambling a few precious meters in hopes the missiles would overshoot.

To her relief, the missiles screamed overhead—so close the heat rippled across the windshield.

Then the blast hit.

A wall of force slammed into the truck, rocking it violently. The windows shattered with a sharp crack, glass spraying across the cab as heat rolled in like a furnace. Seraph ducked low, shielding her head as the shockwave passed.

Coughing, eyes stinging, she floored the accelerator. The engine roared, gravplates redirecting. Gaining purchase and pushing the truck forward as it started to regain distance

400 meters.

Behind her, one of the soldiers reloaded. She caught the silhouette—launcher rising, missile slotting into place.

She glanced into the bed of the truck at the anti-material rifle behind her. It was frustratingly out of reach.

"No way I've got time to stop and set up Tiny Tina," she muttered. If the truck came to a full stop and she jumped out, she'd be wide open—no cover, just a glowing target in an open field. She needed a way to get the rifle clear without exposing herself.

"What would Fen do?" She laughed—startling herself. "Am I really going with a Fen plan right now? Sparks."

Her eyes flicked to the tailgate—barely held shut with a fraying strip of polycord. Cheap fix on a beat-up truck.

She drew her blaster, took quick aim at the knot of frayed cord, and fired. The polycord snapped with a sharp twang, and the tailgate jolted open under the force of the shot.

500 meters.

Seraph gripped the wheel tight and wrenched it hard. The truck fishtailed across the dirt, pitching violently as she aimed for just the right angle. In the rearview, she saw Tiny Tina, sliding loose from the bed, tumbling out into the dust.

It was now or never.

Hopefully The missiles will chase the bigger target. Please code don't let them track me.

Without hesitating, she threw the door open and dove.

She watched as the truck hit a rise she hadn't seen and launched into the air, lifting in a sudden, perfect arc. The missiles screamed past her prone form, chasing the decoy with mindless precision.

They missed by a breath—just enough. The targeting systems hadn't accounted for the truck's sudden change in trajectory… or for anyone unhinged enough to send a half-dead junker soaring like it was auditioning for a stunt rally.

The explosion lit up the sky just above and behind the truck, close enough to rattle its frame midair but not destroy it. The shockwave slammed outward, a wall of heat and force that rolled across the battlefield.

Seraph caught it full-on.

It hit like a freight train, slamming the breath from her lungs as she curled in tight, arms over her head. Gravel and smoke rained down, burying her in the aftermath.

Pain bloomed through her ribs, but she forced herself upright, coughing. "Yeah," she muttered, crawling forward and staying low. "Definitely a Fen plan."

She moved fast—half-crawling, half-loping through the haze, trusting the swirling smoke to keep her hidden. Her fingers found the rifle, familiar and solid, its weight grounding her. She dropped into a prone firing position, heart thundering in her ears.

As she checked the chamber and scope, she whispered, "Sorry, baby girl. I wouldn't treat you like this if I had another option." A pause, then a smirk. "But let's be honest—this is Fen's fault."

As Seraph sighted through the advanced scope, the world lit up with clarity. The thermal signatures of five remaining soldiers blazed bright against the twilight, clustered near the smoking remains of the skirmish. Each one held a half-loaded launcher, focused entirely on the truck that had drawn their attention.

They didn't see her. Not prone in the dust, breathing steady, hidden in the wash of dusk and smoke. She was the real threat now.

The scope itself was a prize—legendary, earned by 100%ing a brutal sniper sim deep in the outer cortex of the Net. And now, finally, she was about to put it to proper use.

Praying to the old code that the rifle was still zeroed in, she took a breath, steadied her aim, and squeezed the trigger.

The first round—an anti-material slug the size of her fist—punched clean through the side of one of the mercenaries' trucks, catching the exposed power cells. The explosion vaporized three soldiers in a flash of white-blue fire. It lit up the desert like a second sunrise, stretching jagged shadows across the sand.

The scope realigned. Her optics adjusted automatically. She swept toward the last two.

Two more clean shots. Two more regrets made real in a mist of red pixels.

Silence.

Seraph let herself breathe again, scanning for movement. Her heart was still pounding, but the moment held—just for a second.

Then her scope passed over the refinery.

There was Auri.

She was braced at the breach point, caught in a silent war against the thing clawing its way through the rift. The tear had grown massive—twisting black geometry stretched open like a wound in the world, and from it bled something that shouldn't exist. Nightmare-dark and writhing. The kind of thing no sane person would code.

A warm swell of pride rose in Seraph's chest. Auri hadn't run. She stood her ground, fighting back against whatever the hell was trying to force its way through—no hesitation, no backup. Just grit and code.

It was reckless. Brave. Maybe even a little stupid.
But it was also… familiar.

Seraph smiled faintly. Auri and Fen were more alike than either of them liked to admit—throwing themselves headlong into impossible odds, acting like they didn't care, but always trying to protect someone else. It was just their style.

And if something happened to Auri... Seraph's expression darkened.
Fen wouldn't say it out loud, probably wouldn't even realize it right away—but without Auri around to break the routine, to crack a joke when things got heavy, or pull him back when he started spiraling—he'd lose something. Something vital.
She was the light that kept him from going completely dark.

Seraph grit her teeth and pulled her eye back to the scope, shaking off the dark thoughts and forcing herself to focus.
"Come on, Fen. No time for tea. Where are you?"

Her sights swept past the refinery's drainage tunnel—and there he was. Fen's body tumbled out like a ragdoll, flung hard and fast, a trail of dust rising behind him. The mech surged after him, relentless, its plated limbs tearing across stone and smoke with terrifying momentum.

Seraph's pulse slowed. The chaos around her seemed to fall away. She adjusted her aim, steadying the reticle over the pilot's chest. One breath—held just a second longer than usual.

"Goodnight, my dear," she whispered.

The trigger broke clean under her finger, and the rifle kicked against her shoulder. The shot tore through the air—a sonic thunderclap wrapped around a fist-sized, charged anti-material slug. The air shimmered and warped in its wake, heat and force spiraling forward like a lance of vengeance.

The mech's shield flared—a brief corona of light—before the slug punched straight through its chestplate, shattering armor and momentum in a single devastating strike. The pilot was torn from the rig in a spray of force and wreckage. The mech crumpled mid-charge, limbs twitching once as steam and plasma hissed from its ruptured frame. Then it went still.

Silence followed. Heavy. Final.

Seraph exhaled, her eye still pressed to the scope. Clean and absolute.
A perfect ending to the mech's reign of terror.

She stood, slinging the massive rifle over her shoulder. Her gaze flicked to the truck—battered, ugly as ever, but somehow still running. A grin tugged at her lips.

She climbed in and began to turn it around.

"Yeah… just like something Fen would do. But I did it with style."

"Seraph... thank the old code. You scared me for a second—driving off like that. I knew you wouldn't leave, but…" Fen's voice came through her comms, the last traces of static finally giving way.

There had been a brief digression about the taxonomy of apes, Auri's condition, and his own brush with being flattened by a mech—but what had stuck with Seraph was the tone. Relief, deep and unguarded.

That memory lingered as she brought the truck over the last ridge, dust curling in its wake.

"I'm almost there, you two," she said, voice steady. Then she paused. "Fen… you seemed so relieved when you heard me check in. You know I'd never leave you both behind, right?"

"Yeah, Sera. I know," Fen replied, sincere now. "But fear has a way of overriding logic and experience in the moment. It was wrong of me to doubt you."

Auri's voice crackled faintly over the channel, thinner than before. "As much as I'd love to call Fen out on his emotional betrayal… I don't think we've got time for that." Her usual snark was there, but barely—strained and distant. "Seraph, you might want to hurry up and scoop up our boy. I'm… losing this fight."

Seraph's hands clenched tighter on the wheel.

"Hold on, Auri," she said, leaning forward into the drive. "I'm pulling up now."

Through the swirling dust, Seraph saw Fen limping toward her, silhouetted against the flickering midnight light pouring from the rift. She slammed the brakes, the truck skidding to a stop, and threw the door open.
"Get in!" she shouted.

Fen collapsed into the seat, one leg barely holding. He was gasping, shaken, dust streaked across his face like ash.
"Auri," Seraph said, maneuvering the truck closer to the rift. "I've got him. What do you need us to do?"

The silence that followed stretched painfully long.

When Auri finally spoke, her voice was frayed and whisper-thin, glitching at the edges. "Go. Just... go. I'll hold this as long as I can, but it's... breaking through."

"No!" Fen barked, already fumbling for the door handle. "We're not leaving you!"

Seraph grabbed his arm. "Fen, wait—"

He tore free and stumbled out, eyes locked on Auri's flickering silhouette at the heart of the rift. The light around her bent, the air warping like glass in a furnace.

"Fen!" Seraph shouted, exiting the truck and sprinting to follow—but she skidded to a halt.

He was already at the threshold, each step dragging like he was wading through tar. The air shimmered around him, thick and unstable, his outline flickering like a bad signal. As he neared the breach, the world seemed to slow.

Time stuttered.

Seraph felt it in her chest like a skipped heartbeat. Everything around them slowed, blurred at the edges. Auri and Fen stood frozen in the fractured light of the rift, locked in a moment that stretched longer than it should have. She couldn't hear them, not exactly—but something passed between them. Not words. Something deeper.

She didn't know how she knew.

Only that she did.

Auri's reply came not through the comms but through the ether itself, tender and final. "I'm sorry, Fen."

A beam of light surged out from Auri's core, flaring wide—then slammed into Fen with a force that lifted him off his feet. He flew backwards like chaff in the wind, crashing hard into the dirt. The sound of it cracked through the air.

Seraph was on him in seconds, boots crunching through the scorched gravel. Fen hadn't moved. He sat where he'd landed, shoulders slumped, knees bent, one hand half-buried in the dirt as if the world might slip away without something to anchor him.

She dropped beside him, steadying him with a hand to his chest, the other gripping the edge of his jacket.

"What the hell was that?" she breathed—not at him. Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, aimed at the chaos, the rift, the brokenness of the moment.

Fen didn't answer at first. His stare stayed locked on the pulsing breach, his eyes were red around the edges, His face was drawn tight. When he finally turned toward her, the look in his eyes shattered her.

"I tried to help…" he said, voice raw. "She wouldn't let me help her."

The words hung between them, trembling in the silence. He didn't look away.

He held her gaze, and for a moment they just sat—two specs of code in a collapsing simulation, dwarfed by something too big, too strange, too far beyond their grasp.

Then Fen's shoulders sagged. He blinked, the last of the fight bleeding out of him.

"She knew we couldn't throw in on this," he murmured. "Servers, we don't even understand what this thing is."

He looked away, and the resignation cut deeper than anything else. The finality in his voice didn't ask for comfort—it just left silence in its wake.

And Seraph didn't break it.

She turned toward the rift.

It was pulsing wider now, swallowing the world behind it. Auri's figure flickered at the edge—barely holding, like a candle pressed to a storm.

The truck idled behind them, soft and patient, absurd in the noise.

Then Auri's voice came again—faint, barely audible. "Please… just go."

Fen leaned into Seraph, drained. "We can't just leave her…"

"I know," Seraph murmured.

And she did. She felt it in her chest like something tearing loose.

But there was no plan. No miracle. No shot to take. Just Auri, alone, holding back something even the Synth couldn't contain.

The silence between them stretched—until Seraph's knuckles whitened on his jacket. She didn't remember deciding. Only that she rose, lifting Fen with her, and helped him toward the truck.

They moved together, slow and silent. Fen's voice broke just as they reached the door.

"We'll come back," he whispered.

He paused, then added—softer still—"We're not leaving you behind, Auri."

But even he knew the words were hollow.

And that was what hurt most.

Seraph helped him into the passenger seat, then rounded the front and climbed in beside him. Neither of them spoke. Both kept their eyes on the rift, where Auri's light flickered, small and defiant.

Seraph pressed the accelerator. The truck rumbled forward.

Dust rose behind them. The rift shrank in the mirror—until it was only smoke.

And the sense of loss lingered, heavy in the cab, like something sacred had been left behind.