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

Epilogue

The shockwave of the crystal's detonation had faded and left the Verdant Expanse in ruin. Once a realm of endless green valleys and sky, it was now nothing but a scar—charred stone and glass stretching for miles, the horizon smudged black with smoke. The air itself shimmered with static, as if the simulation hadn't decided what to replace the void with.

The Verdant Legacy drifted through the wreckage, her hull scorched, her sails torn and patched with hasty repairs. The ship had survived—but just barely. Her decks were quiet, her crew hollow-eyed. Those who had lived through the Expanse's fall carried a weight in their silence, as though speaking aloud might admit what they had lost.

At the helm, Desmond stood rigid, staring into the horizon where the crystal and the heart of the Expanse had once been. His hand rested against the railing, knuckles white against the blackened steel. There was no sign. No trace. No beacon. Nothing but the rolling ash and the echo of what had been.

Behind him, near the railing of the gunwale, Seraph stood with her arms folded tight against her chest. Her eyes were rimmed red, though her cheeks were dry—somewhere along the way, the tears had run out. She didn't move, barely breathed, her gaze locked on the ruin beyond the glass.

"Any word?" she asked finally, her voice brittle, as if the words themselves threatened to shatter her.

Desmond shook his head once. "No trace. No signal." He hesitated, the words heavy in his mouth. "Seraph… I'm so sorry. They're gone."

A muscle jumped in her jaw. Her eyes flicked, sharp and unyielding, still locked on the horizon.
"No," she whispered. "Not gone. He promised."

Desmond's chest tightened, but he didn't argue. What was there to say? That promises broke under the weight of gods and crystals? That the man she trusted had thrown himself into an ending no one could return from? He had seen Fen make impossible stands before—and fall. He had also seen him walk back from places no one should have.

So he stayed silent.

The ship drifted on through the scarred horizon, crew and survivors moving like ghosts across the deck. The Verdant Expanse was gone. Fen and Auri had gone with it. And yet, against all reason, Seraph's eyes remained fixed on the ruin as though she could will him back into being.

As though she could still hear his voice.

And so they drifted—waiting, hoping—for a signal that never came.

Time passed—days first, then weeks. The Citadel moved on, its lights blazing as though nothing had happened, but for those who had survived the Expanse… nothing was the same. The search parties ended. The reports slowed. Hope dimmed, not gone, but dulled by silence and reason. By then, grief no longer felt sharp. Just… heavy. A constant weight pressing down, the ache of mourning that lingered even in the rhythm of city life.

They all kept busy.

Desmond threw himself into the only thing left—holding Cyberdine together. With Fisck gone and half the board scattered or dead, the company should've collapsed. Hell, part of him wanted to let it burn. But Cyberdine was too big to fail. Too embedded in the SynthNet's bones. If they went under, half the system's infrastructure would collapse with them.

So he stayed. Not because he wanted the empire, but because he couldn't let it fall on the innocent who relied on it. Desmond had never been just a commander of men. The same qualities that made him a leader on the battlefield—his steady presence, his fairness, his ability to read people and push them toward their best—translated into the boardroom. Contracts became supply lines. Partners became allies. Predatory investors became enemy flanks to outmaneuver. He quickly made partner—then CEO— and he wielded his influence with the same sharp instinct that once moved soldiers across a battlefield. Cut deals he didn't want to make—just to keep the lights on and the vultures circling a little farther out. He buried the filth Fisck left behind, and held the company together with sheer will. And every night, he watched recordings of those last moments in the Expanse,Fen's words burned into his mind: Do better.

Sarge vanished into the Citadel's underbelly, slipping back into the life he knew best. Not the bottle, not brawls—but espionage. He moved through data vaults and dead-drops, chasing whispers of the Spyders with a relentlessness that bordered on obsession. Every fragment of code, every shadowed rumor, every trail of their network he uncovered—it was all fuel. Grief had become his mission, sharpened into vengeance.

Sam stayed at the diner. At first, he did it because someone had to—the regulars still came, the neighborhood still needed a place to sit and eat. But soon it became more than that. Customers would ask about Fen and Auri, the infamous duo whose fight against the Arbiter had been broadcast across half the Net. And Sam made sure they knew the truth. That they weren't villains or rebels—they were heroes. Over greasy plates and cheap coffee, he told their stories again and again, until the diner itself carried their memory.

In time, Sam grew into the role. He saved, scraped, and hustled—every tip, every odd job tucked away—until he had enough to make the leap. One day, quietly, he signed the contract and went hardcore. Not for glory. Not for fame. But because Fen had believed in him. And he wasn't going to let that belief go to waste.

And Seraph? She ran. Missions, deliveries, raids—anything that kept her moving. She slept little, ate less, and let herself blur into the momentum. Because stopping meant remembering. And remembering meant facing the truth of an empty space at her side.

She kept taking contracts through NPC for Hire—though not before breaking Trent's nose. Just to be sure. His sputtering "interrogation" through the tears was almost pitiful: he'd only been handed the file that very morning and told to slot it to a good fit. The truth turned out to be simpler—and more insidious—than betrayal. When Sarge dug into the logs, he found the contract had been skimmed into NPC for Hires's system— Most likely it was the Spyders skimming a packet into the queue, knowing Trent would pass it to Fen and Seraph without question.

Trent hadn't known a thing.

Once her temper cooled and the swelling on his face went down, they found a rhythm again. Trent funneled her the best-paying jobs, and she made sure to deliver on all of them. Caravans through raider territory. Ghost runs into corp vaults. Infestation purges in forgotten sectors. She took them all. She delivered. She always delivered.

But the victories felt hollow. No Fen to smirk when she pulled off something reckless, no Auri in her ear with a sly quip. The thrill was still there, but without them, it rang empty. So she just kept moving, chasing the next job, because momentum was the only thing that kept the grief from catching her.

One day, a mission had brought her near the Retro. She didn't know why, but her feet carried her toward it all the same.

She found it after hours. The customers were gone, the doors locked. Seraph pressed her hands to the cool glass and peered through the windows.

Inside, it sat exactly as it always had—untouched, frozen in time. The booths lined up in their neat rows, the counter still gleaming under the soft glow of overhead lights, a few half-cleaned glasses waiting on the tables.

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It looked… smaller, somehow. Fragile.

Her chest tightened as her eyes roamed the empty space. It hadn't been that long ago—just weeks, maybe—but it felt like another lifetime. Fen chasing Sam in circles, Auri's voice crackling through the speakers, Sarge carrying coffee from behind the counter.

Half a smile tugged at her lips. Half a grimace.

"I don't know what I expected," she whispered to herself. "Ghosts, maybe."

But there was nothing. No voices, no warmth. Just silence. Just memories pressed into the walls, waiting for people who would never come back.

She stepped back from the glass and walked away, the neon sign above the door buzzing faintly behind her, like a heartbeat fading into the night.

They each carried grief in their own way, folding it into the rhythm of survival.

But grief had gravity too. And eventually… It pulled them back together.

One day, Desmond called.

After some forced pleasantries and awkward small talk, he finally said,
"If you aren't busy, can you meet me at the warehouse tomorrow? I might have something."

Seraph wasn't surprised. After the Expanse, she had taken him there herself. They'd needed a place to lay low in the days after the event—searching for Fen and Auri, dodging authorities asking hard questions, and wary of the Spyders still lurking. The warehouse had been safe, hidden. A place to breathe while the system reeled from the broadcast.

She arrived a few hours early. Sarge and Sam were already there. The place was still a ruin—charred wiring hanging like dead vines, blackened booths and melted screens, the smell of scorched metal still clinging to every surface. They hadn't had time to start renovations. None of them had the energy for more than scraping away debris back then, enough to clear a corner for her and Desmond to lie low.

Now, at least, the floors were beginning to show through.

Sarge had been meaning to remodel, to fix his rig, but as Seraph looked around, she guessed other priorities had taken his time. She rolled up her sleeves and joined them in the slow work of clearing the wreckage.

"I get you wanted to wipe the data, but that doesn't mean you had to wipe it off the face of the earth," she said, hauling out a chunk of twisted steel. "I know you thought the Spyders were on the way—which they weren't, by the way. Your security threw them off—but sparks, Sarge, you went a little overboard on the failsafes, didn't you?"

Sarge, covered in soot, grunted. "Listen—I didn't know they'd explode, alright? They were supposed to be EMP charges."

Sam's head popped up from behind a console. "Didn't you get those from that shady guy in the south sector? Even I knew those would probably explode."

Sarge shot him a look. "Charlie isn't shady, Sam. I've known him for cycles. He just… doesn't know his EMPs from his elbow, apparently."

Sam snorted. "Yeah. Well… maybe next time read the label."

Seraph managed a ghost of a smile before her throat tightened. "They'd have laughed at this, you know? Called us a bunch of glitch-ridden amateurs."

Silence followed. Heavy. Each lost in their own memories.

At last, Seraph spoke again. "Have you seen Desmond since the… event?"

Sarge wiped his hands on his ruined vest. "Kid showed up a few days ago. Said he had news. I wasn't with you in there, but are you sure we can still trust him? Looks like he's gone full corpo exec now."

Seraph's eyes softened. "Fen did."

Sarge sighed, long and low. "Yeah. You're right. That's good enough for me."

Moments later, Desmond entered. No longer the bloodied soldier in an admiral's jacket—now in pressed slacks and a business-casual coat. Not the battlefield, but the boardroom. He looked cleaner, steadier… but the hollowness still lingered in his eyes.

"Glad you're all here," he said, voice even but heavy. "This is the first time we've all been together since… well. Since then." He hesitated. "I'm running Cyberdine now. CEO and Director of Operations."

Seraph nodded, a ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. "Yeah. I heard. Saw the press conference. You looked good in a suit."

A flicker of humor passed over him. "Better than the uniform, huh?"

"Different," she said softly.

Sarge gave a low whistle. "CEO. Director. Fancy titles. So does that come with a discount on gear—or maybe some of those 'special' rates?"

"I'll see what I can do for you, Harlen," Desmond said with a small smile.

Sam snorted. "Not sure I trust the guy running things when his last employer literally turned into a final boss fight."

The words hung. Too true. Too close.

Sarge exhaled, a half-laugh, half-grimace. "Yeah… well. Guess we've all got some ghosts to live with. You here to give us a hand, Desmond?"

"Sure," Desmond said, rolling up his sleeves. "Can't stay long, but might as well get my hands dirty. We can talk while we work."

A few hours later, the four of them sat together at the Retro. Desmond had pushed his meetings to the next day.

They shared a meal, the first in too long.

"So you think you've found traces of the Spyders?" Sarge asked between bites.

Desmond nodded. "I've had Cyberdine's techs running traces nonstop. We've intercepted some comms, even hired people to dig into their digs. Haven't found Geist, Kade, or Eris yet."

"Same here," Sarge said. "I've been skimming the Net, calling old contacts. There's a Spider-shaped hole in the network right now. I figure they're lying low after the broadcast."

Desmond's expression darkened. "We also know Siren's back in the Overseer network. Can't tell if they still have the Old One they captured, but they're quiet—too quiet. Claiming Recluse was just a rogue submind."

He hesitated. Then: "But what I really wanted to tell you—my techs think they found Auri's sanctum. Empty. But we're sifting through it now."

"The conversation wound on—whispers of leads turning slowly into stories. When Sam spilled mustard on his apron, the tension cracked, and laughter finally broke through. They talked. They remembered. They let grief sit at the table with them—not as something to escape, but as something to carry, so its stories would not be lost. And in their voices, grief revealed its other name: Legacy."

And when the night wound down, the Retro's lights glowing warm against the Citadel's endless neon, two voices stirred just beyond hearing.

'Wow. They just got over us.'

'Took them long enough.'

'They're going to be so sparking mad—all that mourning, Desmond's therapy bill…'

'Trent's nose.'

Laughter, bright and sharp, echoing in the static.

'They finally start to get over it and blam…'

'Yeah. They're going to be pissed when we show back up.'

'Oh, but it's going to be so worth it to see the looks on their faces.'

'Yeah well that's what they get for underestimating us. They should have known we'd pull some crazy sparking circuits out of our motherboards like this.'

'Uhh should I bring popcorn or tissues to the party?'

'Party what party?'

'Of course we're throwing ourselves a party when we get back. Come on…'

The unheard conversation lingered into the night with no one to perceive it, as it finally came to an end the last words were edged with a grin as sharp and sly as a Cheshire smile.

In a null space far from the Retro Grille—far from the smoldering ashes of the Verdant Expanse—code began to coalesce.

It was formless at first. A shimmering, endless horizon of possibility.

Then… a system notification appeared. Ephemeral. Intangible. Yet heavy with meaning.

[Welcome to the SynthNet.]

[You are now a registered player of Cyberdine Inc. Your consciousness is fully integrated into the code. ]

[Please enter a name.]

The glowing shape split—two forms emerging from the void.

One: tall, broad-shouldered, shrouded in soft golden light.
The other: smaller, a familiar grinning geodesic orb humming quietly in the dark.

The man lifted a hand, fingers steady as he reached toward the waiting prompt. For a heartbeat, the whole of the SynthNet seemed to hold its breath.

A single name appeared, burning bright across the void.

FENRIS BARRETT.

The system shook.

The code trembled.

And somewhere deep—at the very roots of the SynthNet—the threads of reality resonated in perfect harmony with the two glowing figures.

A system prompt flickers into view—soft, familiar. Like an old friend waiting.

This is the end of NPC For Hire, Book One of the Ascension Protocol.

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