David Haydn-Jones KMS

THE DUSTY MAIN STREET OF HARMONY CREEK, OREGON, SHIMMERED UNDER THE AFTERNOON SUN. DEAN WINCHESTER, EVER-ALERT, SCANNED THE HANDFUL OF LOCALS MILLING ABOUT. "ALRIGHT, SO THIS IS IT?" HE GRUMBLED, ADJUSTING HIS GRIP ON A WORN LEATHER BAG. "A 'REAL-LIFE NPC' ACCORDING TO GARTH. SOUNDS LIKE A TUESDAY." ARTHUR KETCH, IMPECCABLY DRESSED AS ALWAYS, SCOFFED. "GARTH'S ANALYSIS OF SUPERNATURAL PHENOMENA OFTEN BORDERS ON THE… WHIMSICAL. STILL, THE LOCAL DISAPPEARANCES ARE QUITE REAL, AS ARE THE PECULIAR REPORTS OF INDIVIDUALS ACTING WITH UTTER PREDICTABILITY." MICK DAVIES, ALREADY PORING OVER A TABLET DISPLAYING SATELLITE IMAGES OF THE TOWN, NODDED. "THE PATTERN IS UNDENIABLE. THESE 'NPCS' — NON-PLAYER CHARACTERS, AS THE TERM IMPLIES — EXHIBIT REPETITIVE BEHAVIORS, LIMITED DIALOGUE, AND A CURIOUS LACK OF GENUINE EMOTION." HE POINTED TO A FIGURE STANDING BY THE GENERAL STORE, SWEEPING THE SAME PATCH OF DIRT FOR THE FIFTH TIME IN AS MANY MINUTES. "EXHIBIT A." "LOOKS LIKE A DUDE SWEEPING, MICK," DEAN SAID, NARROWING HIS EYES. "WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO? ASK HIM IF HE HAS ANY SIDE QUESTS?" "WE ARE TO OBSERVE," KETCH INTERJECTED, "AND THEN, IF THE OPPORTUNITY PRESENTS ITSELF, 'BEAT THE CRAP OUT OF HIM,' AS THE RATHER UNREFINED INSTRUCTION FROM OUR AMERICAN COLLEAGUES PUT IT." JUST THEN, A WOMAN IN A FLORAL DRESS, CARRYING A WICKER BASKET, APPROACHED THE SWEEPING MAN. "GOOD MORNING, HAROLD," SHE CHIRPED. "GOOD MORNING, MARTHA," HAROLD REPLIED, HIS VOICE FLAT, DEVOID OF INFLECTION. "LOVELY DAY FOR SWEEPING." HE CONTINUED HIS RHYTHMIC, ALMOST ROBOTIC, MOTION. MARTHA THEN WALKED PAST HIM, TURNED RIGHT AT THE CORNER, AND DISAPPEARED BEHIND THE HARDWARE STORE. FIVE MINUTES LATER, SHE REAPPEARED FROM THE SAME SPOT, BASKET STILL EMPTY, AND REPEATED HER "GOOD MORNING, HAROLD" ROUTINE. DEAN’S JAW TIGHTENED. "OKAY, THAT'S WEIRD. REALLY WEIRD. IT'S LIKE WATCHING A DAMN VIDEO GAME CUTSCENE ON REPEAT." HE GLANCED AT KETCH AND MICK. "SO, 'OPPORTUNITY PRESENTS ITSELF'... I'M THINKING A SUDDEN, UNPROVOKED AGGRESSIVE ACT MIGHT QUALIFY." "INDEED," KETCH SAID, A GLINT IN HIS EYE. "A TEST OF ITS… PROGRAMMING, SHALL WE SAY?" MICK, SURPRISINGLY, PUT HIS TABLET AWAY WITH A DECISIVE CLICK. "AGREED. LET'S SEE IF OUR 'NPC' CAN HANDLE AN UNEXPECTED VARIABLE." THEY CASUALLY SAUNTERED TOWARDS HAROLD. AS THEY GOT CLOSER, DEAN CLEARED HIS THROAT. "HEY, UH, HAROLD, RIGHT?" HAROLD STOPPED SWEEPING, HIS EYES, UNNERVINGLY VACANT, FIXED ON DEAN. "YES. I AM HAROLD. IT IS A LOVELY DAY FOR SWEEPING." "YEAH, ABOUT THAT," DEAN SAID, THEN, WITH A SPEED THAT BELIED HIS CASUAL DEMEANOR, HE LUNGED. HIS FIST CONNECTED SQUARELY WITH HAROLD'S JAW. THE SOUND WAS LESS A SATISFYING THUD AND MORE A DULL, HOLLOW CRACK. HAROLD STUMBLED BACK, BUT HIS EXPRESSION REMAINED UNCHANGED. NO PAIN, NO SURPRISE, JUST THAT SAME BLANK STARE. KETCH, NOT TO BE OUTDONE, DELIVERED A SWIFT, PRECISE KICK TO HAROLD'S KNEE. AGAIN, THE MAN FALTERED, BUT HIS EYES REMAINED EMPTY. THERE WAS NO GRUNT OF PAIN, NO ATTEMPT TO DEFEND HIMSELF. HE SIMPLY WOBBLED. "REMARKABLE," MICK MUTTERED, THEN DELIVERED A SURPRISINGLY POWERFUL UPPERCUT THAT SNAPPED HAROLD'S HEAD BACK. HAROLD SWAYED LIKE A MARIONETTE WITH CUT STRINGS. HIS MOVEMENTS BECAME EVEN MORE JERKY, HIS SWEEPING MOTIONS RESUMING, BUT NOW ERRATIC AND UNCOORDINATED. HE WAS STILL TRYING TO SWEEP THE SAME PATCH OF DIRT, EVEN AS HE WAS BEING PUMMELED. DEAN, THOROUGHLY DISTURBED BY THE LACK OF REACTION, DELIVERED A RAPID SERIES OF PUNCHES TO HAROLD'S MIDSECTION. "COME ON, FIGHT BACK, YOU FREAK! DO SOMETHING!" HAROLD EMITTED A LOW, DISTORTED SOUND, ALMOST LIKE A GLITCHED AUDIO FILE. HIS BODY BEGAN TO TWITCH, AND HIS EYES STARTED TO GLOW WITH A FAINT, UNNATURAL BLUE LIGHT. HIS SWEEPING BROOM CLATTERED TO THE GROUND AS HIS LIMBS SPASMED. "RIGHT THEN," KETCH SAID, NOTICING THE CHANGE. "LOOKS LIKE WE'VE HIT A NERVE, OR PERHAPS A CIRCUIT BREAKER." HE DELIVERED A FINAL, CONCUSSIVE BLOW TO HAROLD'S TEMPLE. WITH A SHUDDERING SIGH, HAROLD'S BODY WENT LIMP AND CRUMPLED TO THE GROUND. THE BLUE LIGHT IN HIS EYES FLICKERED AND DIED, LEAVING THEM AS VACANT AS BEFORE. HE LAY THERE, UTTERLY STILL, A PERFECTLY ORDINARY-LOOKING MAN, ALBEIT ONE WHO HAD JUST TAKEN AN EXTRAORDINARY BEATING WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A FLINCH. DEAN STARED DOWN AT HIM. "WELL, THAT WAS… UNSATISFYING. NO BLOOD, NO GRUNTS, JUST A DAMN ROBOT." HE KICKED AT A LOOSE STONE. "SO, WHAT NOW? DO WE LOOT HIM FOR GOLD?" KETCH ADJUSTED HIS CUFFLINK. "I HIGHLY DOUBT THERE WILL BE ANY 'LOOT,' DEAN. HOWEVER, WE HAVE CONFIRMED THE ANOMALY. THIS INDIVIDUAL IS INDEED NOT WHAT HE APPEARS TO BE." MICK, EVER THE PRAGMATIST, WAS ALREADY TAKING OUT HIS TABLET AGAIN. "I'LL NEED TO RUN SOME SCANS. SEE IF THERE'S ANY RESIDUAL ENERGY SIGNATURE. AND WE NEED TO FIND OUT WHAT'S CONTROLLING THESE THINGS." HE LOOKED AT THE PRONE FIGURE, THEN BACK AT HIS COMPANIONS. "IT SEEMS GARTH WAS RIGHT AFTER ALL. THOUGH I SUSPECT HE WOULDN'T HAVE ANTICIPATED THE… DIRECTNESS OF OUR APPROACH." DEAN JUST GRUNTED, LOOKING AROUND AT THE EMPTY STREET. "YEAH, WELL, DIRECT'S KIND OF OUR THING. NOW, ABOUT THOSE OTHER 'NPCS'..."