777 squinted toward the tree line, where the dense canopy curled like dark claws above the forgotten trail.
777, muttering under his breath:
"Let's go in. This place is still less horrible than that god-awful lab in Sector 9."
Rick didn't laugh.
He rarely did when the air felt this heavy.
Rick, voice low:
"Yeah… let's go."
They stepped past the edge of the overgrowth—
And the world shifted.
The forest floor softened under their boots, the ground damp with years of rot and memory. Every step stirred the scent of old metal, wet moss, and chemical residue. Birds had stopped chirping here. The only sound was the distant creak of something mechanical still turning far too deep in the earth.
It didn't feel like nature anymore.
It felt… hushed.
Like the earth was holding its breath.
Rick paused near a collapsed satellite dish—half-buried in the dirt and tangled in wire-thin vines.
Rick, scanning the fog-thickened path ahead:
"We should split up. Cover more ground. Less time wasted."
777, already backtracking to the van, returned with a pair of dusty walkie-talkies.
He tossed one with casual aim. Rick caught it mid-air.
777:
"Here. Best we've got. No suit integration."
Rick, dry:
"Of course not. Why would I expect anything from you today?"
777 just smiled as if the insult nourished him.
Rick, turning:
"Do you have my case, at least?"
777:
"Which one?"
Rick:
"The black one with 'ICOSA' etched on the side."
777, thinking:
"Oh. That one. Yeah. Couldn't open it—locked tighter than your trauma. And what the hell does 'ICOSA' even mean?"
Rick reached into the back of the van and pulled the case out himself. He popped it open with a code only his gloves could trigger. No hesitation. No delay.
Inside: two pristine earbuds, a folded slip of paper, and a sealed injection case of unknown tech.
He plucked the earbuds and tossed one to 777.
Rick, without looking up:
"In Case Of Stupid Acts."
777 blinked. No snark. No words. Just slow, delayed respect.
Rick, slipping the bud into his ear:
"Now… into the abandoned space we go."
He walked ahead—past rusted fences buried in ivy and old warning signs so faded they looked like ancient relics.
The wind pressed harder now, rustling the trees like something just woke up.
It carried with it the scent of scorched earth, ozone, and the faint staleness of burnt circuitry—
a smell that didn't belong in a forest,
but in a graveyard of machines.
Something had once thrived here.
Something electric.
Something wrong.
Rick, stepping deeper into the overgrowth:
"Let's go."
They split paths—Rick veering left, 777 weaving through the thorns on the right.
Overhead, a power line twitched in the wind, disconnected from any grid but humming like it remembered.
Rick, tapping his earbud as he scanned the terrain:
"Do you know the history of this place?"
777, voice crackling through the comm:
"Hold on. I'll patch Jennifer in."
Rick, scowling mid-step:
"You already hacked my earbud, didn't you?"
A crisp chime pinged through the line.
Jennifer, crisp and unsettlingly cheerful:
"System online. Encryption verified. Biometric scan complete. Mission handling algorithm initiated. Accessing suit HUD... thermal vision calibration in progress.
Good evening, gentlemen."
777:
"Jennifer, any data on this location?"
A short pause.
Jennifer:
"This location is not listed in my current database. However, cross-referencing with the Bureau's internal archives may yield results. Shall I request access?"
777:
"Rick?"
Rick, muttering, stepping over a half-buried machine frame:
"No. Don't. That'll expose our position.
Besides… you did the security framework for the Bureau's servers, didn't you? Any chance you left us a backdoor?"
777, suddenly very quiet:
"Uh…"
Rick:
"Don't say it."
777:
"…I may have closed every single one after you called my code 'sloppy spaghetti.'"
Rick, groaning as he stepped over another rusted pipe:
"Shit."
Jennifer, voice steady and emotionless:
"Sir Fx-Spider, you have something on your left—thermal imaging detects what appears to be an embedded audio-data relay. It contains a message. Would you like me to decode it?"
Rick, pausing mid-step:
"Go ahead."
A faint electronic crackle pulsed through his earpiece.
Jennifer:
"Message received: '67 6f 20 66 75 63 6b 20 79 6f 75 72 73 65 6c 76 65 73 20.'
Converting hexadecimal to ASCII…"
777, already suspicious:
"What the heck is that—some encrypted frequency? A code?"
Rick:
"Jennifer, what does it say?"
777, suddenly waving a hand:
"No no, hang on—Jennifer, don't bother. I got it."
A beat.
Jennifer, without skipping a beat:
"It says: 'Go fuck yourselves.'"
Silence.
777, half-laughing, half-offended:
"Why does she listen to you?"
Rick, deadpan:
"Because I also helped write her. She knows who's boss."
777, muttering as he scanned the trees:
"Yeah, yeah. Next thing you'll say she makes your coffee too."
Jennifer, sweetly, cutting in through the comms:
"I do."
Jennifer, tone shifting to urgent:
"Alert: Agent 777, you have an unexpected visitor—armed. Behind you. Gun drawn."
777, eyes widening:
"Shit."
Stranger, from behind:
"Hands up."
777 slowly raised his hands.
Stranger, firm:
"Now… turn around. Slowly."
777, hands still raised, voice flat:
"You know, civilians shouldn't carry guns. Especially if they don't know how to use 'em."
From the shadows behind the stranger—Rick emerged like a ghost with a grudge.
Rick, calm and cold:
"You should probably turn around too."
The stranger spun in panic—
But behind him… was nothing.
That hesitation was all Rick needed.
fwmp
Rick clamped a napkin over the man's face—already soaked in Tobey's infamous "sleeping potion."
Stranger:
"Mmph—"
Body drops like a sack of potatoes.
777, exhaling in relief:
"You are a life saver. Seriously. What even was that?"
Rick, checking the guy's pulse:
"Tobey's potion. I repurposed it with a cloth napkin. Effective, huh?"
777, eyes wide:
"You're telling me it actually works?!"
Jennifer, smoothly cutting in:
"Deploying rope. Supply drone in flight."
Above, the quiet hum of rotors.
A compact drone zipped into view overhead, lowering a coil of rope from its undercarriage like a spy-themed claw machine.
Rick, catching it midair:
"Let's tie this guy up. Dump him in the van before someone sees."
As Rick bound the man's wrists and ankles with practiced precision—
777, crouching beside the stranger:
"Does he have any ID? Badge? Anything?"
Rick, patting him down:
"Nothing. No wallet. No phone. Not even lint."
777:
"Damn. That's textbook ghost protocol. Whoever he is, we'll need answers."
Rick tightened the last knot and stood.
Rick, pointing into the trees:
"There's a shed at six o'clock. Probably storage. Isolated."
777, already lifting the unconscious stranger by the collar:
"Cool. First—into the van. Then we figure out what this guy was doing out here creeping up on my back like a horror movie jump scare."
They vanished into the dark once more.
—
Inside the van, the doors slammed shut with a muffled thunk. Rick hauled the stranger in with little grace and tossed him across the floor like a sack of morally questionable potatoes.
Rick, exhaling:
"How strong do you think Tobey's potion is? When will he wake up?"
777, shrugging while fastening the seatbelt on the unconscious man (for legal reasons, probably):
"No idea. Might be ten minutes. Might be next Thursday."
Rick:
"Jennifer—send a sample collection drone. I need to confirm the compound's makeup."
Jennifer, voice crisp through the comms:
"Deploying fast-response sample collection drone from base. ETA: 20 seconds."
777, raising an eyebrow:
"Shouldn't you be a little more gentle with the guy before declaring him non-lethal?"
Rick, waving it off while adjusting his gloves:
"Hey, I said he shouldn't die. I didn't say he shouldn't be dizzy for the next ten years."
They both paused as the van's internal lights dimmed and the soft whirrrr of propellers buzzed above.
Rick, glancing at the display:
"There was a landing pad near the shed. Looked recent. Signs of use."
777, peering at the drone outside the window:
"Great. Add 'unauthorized aerial activity' to the list of weird shit happening."
Jennifer:
"Drone has arrived. Please insert sample."
Rick unscrewed the small vial of Tobey's potion, dabbed a drop onto the test slide, and slid it into the drone's compartment. A brief scan clicked, and the drone zipped back into the dark like a bat on caffeine.
777:
"And now we've got a landing pad, a mystery shed, and some dude with no ID getting lullabied in our backseat. Love this."
Jennifer, chiming back:
"Sample processed. Compound matches chloroform-based hybrid. Estimated sleep duration: 8 to 10 hours."
Rick, already stepping out:
"Let's go to the shed."
—
They approached the structure through thick overgrowth. Wind hissed across the open clearing, carrying the bitter scent of engine fuel. A concrete helicopter landing pad sat quietly beside the shed—old, cracked, but recently used. Tracks. Smudges. Oil stains.
[Narrator, sipping concern like fine tea]
"And they said this was just a park. Ha."
777, staring up at the pad, whistling low:
"This ain't no backyard project."
The shed itself looked ancient—metal siding aged to ash-gray, vines creeping up the walls like nature trying to claim it back.
They stopped at the heavy-duty steel door, where a keypad glowed faintly beneath a canopy of leaves.
777, squinting:
"What the hell is this?"
He tapped the panel. A full keyboard. No length indicator. No hint.
777, frustrated:
"How the fuck am I supposed to crack this? It's got a full QWERTY. No numbers. No clues. No idea how long the code even is!"
Rick, arms crossed, scanning the doorframe:
"Could be alphanumeric. Could be a phrase. Could be Tobey just playing with us."
777, muttering:
"Or it could be the entrance to hell. We've cracked codes. Hacked international archives. But this? This is personal-grade spiteware."
Jennifer:
"Would you like me to attempt a brute force pattern analysis?"
Rick:
"No. The moment this thing senses a digital attack, it could trigger a lockout—or worse."
[Narrator, dryly]
"One does not simply brute-force a door guarding probable trauma and family secrets."
777:
"Then what now?"
Rick:
"We wait. Gather more clues. This isn't just a code door. It's a statement."
The wind blew again—heavier this time. The scent of engine oil. And something... faint.
Sweet. Metallic.
Rick:
"…Blood?"
777, suddenly alert:
"You smell that too?"
They turned to face the darkness beyond the shed.
Something had happened here.
Something wasn't done yet.