Scene: Post-lab escape – deep woods, campfire.
The fire crackled loud in the silence. Real flames. Real warmth.
For once—not synthetic. Not reactor-born.
Just wood. Smoke. Breathing.
Rick sat slouched against a moss-slick rock, boots pointed toward the blaze, his eyes dulled from too many close calls and not enough sleep.
A soft breeze stirred his jacket, but he didn't move.
The baby tank pulsed quietly in the back of the van parked nearby—its rear doors wide open to the firelight. The golden glow within shimmered like something holy… or cursed. Maybe both.
Across the fire, 777 sat low to the ground, hunched, hoodie soaked with soot and dried blood crusting one cheek. He still had that trademark smirk—but it hung tired now. Hollowed out.
Neither of them spoke for a long while.
Then—
"Still got that lighter?" 777 asked, voice half-dragged through gravel.
Rick didn't answer right away. Just reached into his coat pocket, flipped the lighter open with a click, sparked it, then shut it again.
"I'm not lighting anything else," he muttered. "Unless it's this forest."
"Cool," 777 said. "Let me know before you start the apocalypse again."
The wind moved through the trees, soft and slow.
No monsters.
No screams.
Just pine and ash and silence.
"You remember anything back there?" Rick asked after a beat.
"Before the boom?"
"No." Rick's voice dropped lower. "Before the… loop."
777's eyes shifted toward the van. "No. I was busy dissecting that mimic."
Rick nodded, quiet again.
Then—
777 looked at the baby tank.
"You think she's safe?"
Rick followed his gaze. The tank's fogged window blurred the outline of the sleeping child inside—small, curled, still.
Alive.
"I don't think she's supposed to be," Rick said.
"But we're gonna make her anyway."
777 exhaled slowly. "Cool. Just what we need. A second round of whatever hell this is."
Rick leaned back again, eyes on the stars like they might offer some cosmic instruction.
"You ever feel like we're still down there?" he asked, voice thin.
"Don't," 777 snapped. "Don't go simulation-breakdown on me. Not tonight."
Rick cracked a small smirk, the firelight flickering across the edge of his teeth.
But then the fire popped louder. And something about the woods felt… expectant.
"What do you think's happening back at the blast site?" 777 asked.
"No clue. Could be cops. Could be news crews," Rick answered without looking away from the stars.
"We did clean up everything though. So, no problems—for now," 777 muttered.
"Yeah."
"What about the trucks?"
"I canceled them," 777 said, pushing up onto his feet. "Just one van coming now. Cleaner. Quieter."
Jennifer's voice hummed through the comm speaker mounted on the dash.
"Replacement van has arrived. Location: thirty feet due north."
"Well then," 777 stretched his back, groaning. "Guess I'll start moving cargo."
777 moved toward the van. The gravel crunched under his boots as he yanked the rear doors wider, then began pulling gear from the cabin.
Shipping things from one van to another
He worked fast. Efficient.
But when he got to the tank…
Rick didn't look away from the sky.
"Don't load the baby," he said quietly.
777 paused.
One hand still resting on the tank's casing.
A beat.
"…Yes, sir," he muttered under his breath.
He stepped away.
Didn't look back.
Just walked.
Left the baby right where she was—still glowing soft in her cradle of glass and hum, lit by firelight and starlight, like she was dreaming a little louder than before.
A wind stirred the treetops. The fire popped once.
"All loaded," 777 said, brushing his hands off. "Jennifer, recall the van back to base."
Jennifer's voice chimed through static like a calm AI that hadn't watched a lab die in fire.
"Affirmative. Recalling Van ID-23124 to base facility."
The distant hum of the van's engine kicked back to life as it eased into reverse—quiet, smooth, ghost-like beneath the trees.
The fire crackled.
The tank pulsed.
And for just a few seconds—
the world held its breath.
777 sat back down beside the fire. His face was blank, eyes hollow, flickering orange light dancing off the blood crusted on his cheek. The baby's tank hummed softly in the background, cradled by shadow and flame.
The peace returned—fragile, temporary, but real.
Then Rick stood.
His movement slow.
Like a man walking in a body that wasn't his anymore.
"Let's get back to work," he muttered.
777 didn't flinch. Just raised one charred marshmallow on a bent stick.
"At least eat your marshmallow," he said with a voice that hadn't slept in days.
Rick stared at it. Then at 777.
"I'm not falling for your tricks again," he said flatly, eyes dead. "Let's go."
They stomped out the fire and climbed into the van.
777 slid into the driver's seat. Rick sat shotgun, rifle across his knees, jaw tight.
"So," 777 said, hands on the wheel. "Where are we going?"
Rick looked out at the endless night beyond the windshield. His voice came low.
"Night patrol."
The engine growled forward, headlights slicing through the dark like a blade made of silence.
And the forest watched them go.
The van rolled past quiet roads lined with lanterns and moss-draped trees. Miyazaki at night was haunting in a peaceful way—like the city had forgotten there was ever a world on fire.
Neon signs flickered low above shuttered ramen stalls. The ocean wind drifted in through the cracked windows, salty and cold, whispering secrets in a language only the dead remembered.
Rick rested his head against the window. One hand tapping against the frame in sync with the radio's static.
777 drove in silence. His hoodie was still soaked from earlier, the sleeves rolled up now, revealing burns wrapped in makeshift gauze. The baby tank, secured behind them, let out a faint, rhythmic pulse—still breathing, still waiting.
Miyazaki passed by in streaks of gold and gray. It almost felt normal.
Until the van's dashboard vibrated.
Not the engine.
The comm.
A single beep.
Then another.
The screen lit up—
Incoming Call: UNMARKED | Signal Source: Unknown
Rick sat upright. "Mute the engine. Pull over."
777 nodded and slowed the van to a crawl, easing it next to an abandoned vending machine blinking red in the dark.
They didn't answer the call immediately.
Just stared at the screen.
The signal wasn't local.
Wasn't foreign.
It was off-grid.
Buried.
Rick reached forward and tapped the button.
The line opened.
And at first—
nothing.
Then—
a voice. Garbled. Hollow. But unmistakably human.
"…Rick. If you can hear this… she's not the only one they made."
Silence.
Then static.
Then a new voice—one Rick hadn't heard in years