"777," Rick said, voice tight in the dark. "We've got a problem."
"Yeah," came the response. "I'm coming."
—
Inside the lab…
777 moved fast—boots clanging against the iron panels as he darted between fallen bodies and flickering panels. The light on his chest scanner blinked erratically.
He passed through the scorched bulkhead and into the core corridor, eyes already sweeping for Rick.
The deeper he went, the colder it got.
"Rick?" he called out.
No answer.
Just the sound of humming wires. And something else…
Something breathing.
—
Back with Rick…
He stood frozen in pitch black.
Fingers dipped into his jacket pocket—touched metal.
The cigar. 777's parting gift.
Rick let out a breath that wasn't a sigh. More like surrender. "Dead meat. That's what I am," he muttered.
"So many people died here trying their best to survive…"
He laughed.
"They didn't."
He reached into his other pocket, searching for the lighter.
Nothing.
Just static in his head. That low-grade buzzing dread that lives behind the eyes.
"What am I gonna do, punch a mimic that isn't even in this dimension?" he whispered, still patting his pockets. "Guess I'll do the one thing I've never done in my life…"
Flick.
A soft sound. Right behind his shoulder.
A hand—pale, long-fingered, unfamiliar—extended past him, holding a lighter.
Shaking. But steady.
The flame rose, casting a faint orange glow that made the shadows look deeper.
Rick didn't flinch. Didn't turn.
Just brought the cigar to the flame.
It lit.
He took a drag. Slow. Unbothered.
Smoke curled in front of his eyes.
The hand holding the lighter remained still for another second.
Then—
Gone.
Not retracted.
Gone.
Like it was never there.
Rick exhaled the smoke like it was armor. His eyes stayed locked ahead.
"…Thanks," he muttered.
Then he smiled.
Not warm.
Not safe.
The kind of smile that dared the dark to try something.
Because Rick knew—damn well—there was no one behind him.
And whatever was?
It had been watching.
The lights flickered once—then snapped back on with a mechanical buzz. Fluorescents crackled overhead like they'd just remembered how to breathe.
Rick turned around.
Nothing.
Just the hallway.
Empty.
No hand. No lighter. No shadow on the wall.
But something still pressed on the air like a presence that hadn't quite left yet.
Then—footsteps.
777 appeared at the corridor's edge, flamethrower slung low, breathing steady.
Rick raised his gun. Fast. No hesitation.
"Who are you?" he barked, eyes hard.
777 froze mid-step. "What kind of bullshit is this?"
Rick didn't lower the gun.
"One wrong move," he said coldly, "and I step on it."
"Step on—what the hell are you talking about?" 777's face twisted in confusion.
Rick's voice dropped an octave.
"The face you've got? Doesn't match the 777 I know."
777 narrowed his eyes. "Then go on. Tell me—"
BANG.
Rick pulled the trigger.
The bullet missed by a hair—on purpose—ripping into the wall behind 777's head.
"You think you're gonna pull mimic shit and kill me?" Rick growled. "At least give me a noble death. Not this discount cosplay."
The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was loaded.
777 didn't move. His breath stayed slow. His hands stayed visible.
Then—without changing expression—he said:
"You dropped your spare mag back in the locker room. I picked it up. You like to jam a single round halfway in so it clicks different when you reload."
Rick's grip twitched.
777 didn't blink. "Yeah. Thought so."
Rick finally lowered the gun. Not all the way. Just a notch.
"Had to be sure."
"You wanna be sure next time?" 777 muttered. "Ask instead of shooting at my goddamn face."
Rick holstered the gun—but his eyes stayed cold.
"Let's just say… something gave me a cigar light when I didn't have one."
That landed like a dead weight between them.
"…You serious?" 777 said, blinking slow.
Rick nodded once. "We're not alone."
777 took a step forward.
And then he froze.
Not like hesitation.
Like his body locked.
Like something touched him.
Rick's eyes snapped up.
"Don't move."
But it was too late.
777 twitched.
His mouth opened—but no words came.
Just blood.
A thin line dripped from his nose, then his eyes, then down his chin.
Rick reached out—too late.
777's body jerked once—hard—and then lifted.
Straight off the ground.
Invisible threads yanked him up like a marionette on broken strings. His limbs bent wrong, boots scraping against air that wasn't there.
Rick pulled his gun.
"LET. HIM. GO."
The air shivered—not from heat.
From presence.
A whisper slithered down the hallway behind them.
It didn't have a voice. It borrowed one.
777's own voice echoed back, warped and mocking:
"'Miss me?'"
Rick fired—three rounds into the nothing above.
777's body snapped backward midair and then slammed to the ground like a puppet cut loose.
Motionless.
Rick ran—slid down next to him, checked his pulse, his eyes.
No breath.
No movement.
Just blood pooling where his head hit the floor.
"…Shit," Rick whispered, his hands trembling.
Then—
Behind him, in the dark:
A giggle.
And the words were there.
Scratched deep into the wall by something not human:
"One left."
Rick didn't look back.
Didn't need to.
He just raised the gun.
And whispered, calm and cracked—
"Then come take me."
Then—he started laughing.
Loud. Unhinged. Ugly.
It burst out of him like a dam breaking—raw, bitter, too loud for the dead silence around him.
He covered his face with one hand, laughter choking on the edge of something worse.
But when he peeked through his fingers—
—he was standing right back in front of the sign.
→ Observation Room
← Subject Containment
His smile died.
His voice came out hollow:
"I'm going back to the Observation Room."
Rick walked the corridor like it had rewound itself for him—same footsteps, same iron hum, same flicker in the lights.
He stepped into the room.
Nothing had changed.
The body was still there, slumped beneath the wall.
HELP still smeared above it in dried desperation.
The air still stank of chemicals and death.
He approached the glass again—looked through.
Same bloodstains. Same scorched floor.
Same room.
But the key—
The one that had been sitting on the console before?
Gone.
Rick blinked. Checked his belt pouch on instinct—
It was there.
Cold metal. Same serial number.
Same weight.
His heart tapped once. Slow and offbeat.
He pressed the comm.
"777," he said, voice clipped.
Nothing but static.
His jaw clenched.
"…I told him not to die," he muttered under his breath.
Then—
"You need me?"
777's voice crackled through the earpiece. Clear.
Rick flinched.
Looked down at the comm.
Silence.
Then he whispered, "Let it be."
His tone wasn't angry.
It was tired.
"Yeah, okay," 777 replied. "Don't get fucked."
Rick cracked the smallest smile.
"Got it."
The comm cut out.
He exhaled once—tight, sharp.
"I guess I'll go back to that locker room. Same locker."
He turned and made his way down the corridor.
Boots echoing on cold metal.
Lights flickering like they were ready to give up again.
When he stepped into the locker room, the air felt off.
Wrong.
Too still.
And there it was.
A cigar.
777's cigar.
Burning slow on the floor like it had just been dropped.
Still smoldering. Still fresh.
Rick approached it.
Stared for a second.
Then crushed it under his boot with a hard stomp.
"You keep this up," he muttered, "this whole place'll go up in flames.
And I'm not letting that artificial baby die before she even opens her damn eyes."
He turned to step away—
CLANG.
Something fell behind him.
Metal on tile.
Close.
Rick spun.
Eyes narrowing—
Heart cold.
And there it was.
777.
Laid out on the floor.
Motionless.
Rick's breath hitched.
Then—
He laughed.
Not happy. Not mad.
Just cracked.
Still thumping his boot over the now-dead ember of the cigar, like he could keep the world spinning if he just stomped hard enough.
But when the lights flickered once—
Then cut out completely—
And the body vanished—
Rick stopped laughing.
He stood there in pitch black.
Breathing.
Listening.
But the silence said everything.
And suddenly—
The locker room didn't feel like a room anymore.
It felt like a warning.
The lights flickered once.
Then came back on.
Cold. White. Humming like they hadn't just dipped into hell for a second.
Rick scanned the room.
777's corpse was gone.
He narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening.
"Man, I already told you—don't play hide and seek. Dammit."
He turned back toward the locker.
And froze.
There it was.
777's body, standing still.
Not moving.
Blood running from the face like ink leaking from a bad print.
Just… standing.
Rick didn't hesitate.
Didn't ask questions.
Didn't blink.
He turned, wound up—
And cracked a brutal side punch straight into the thing's jaw.
The body collapsed like a bad prop in a haunted house.
Rick stepped over it and kicked it aside.
"Let me do my damn work," he muttered, already back at the locker.
He reached for the handle.
Yanked.
Locked.
"What the—why now?"
He dug into his pocket—
Pulled something out.
A cigar.
Extinguished.
Rick blinked, then looked back at the ground—
And there it was.
The real key.
Lying right where the burning cigar had been.
He bent down, snatched it up.
Turned back to the locker.
Slid the key in—
Click.
He pulled it open—
Already open.
He stared.
Mouth twitching.
And screamed loud enough to shake the walls:
"SON OF A BITCH!"
Silence followed.
Rick let out a long, miserable sigh.
"Let's see what lore we got this time," he muttered.
He shuffled through every paper in the locker—
Same diagrams.
Same phrases.
Same pain.
"Man, kill me already. I'm not doing another fucking time loop," he groaned, rubbing his face like he could rub away the déjà vu.
Then—
flutter
A paper fell.
From inside the locker.
From a locker that he had already emptied.
He blinked.
Then slowly crouched and picked it up, half hoping it was just a receipt for his suffering.
But no.
It was handwritten.
One sentence.
"Take the baby, son of a bitch."
Rick stared at it.
His face slowly contorted into full, weaponized disbelief.
"What the hell was I doing, then? Collecting badges?"
He turned—
And 777's body was gone again.
Then—
click
The locker door slammed shut behind him.
The lights cut.
Total darkness.
A new message carved into the locker's surface—
Fresh. Still warm.
"This place will blow up."
Rick stared.
Then, voice low and pissed:
"Oh. NOW you tell me?"
He slapped his comm so hard it nearly cracked.
"777—get your ass in here! We're grabbing the baby and getting the hell out. This place is about to pop like a cursed piñata!"
No answer.
"Don't you dare ignore me, man!" Rick barked. "If you ghost me now, I'm haunting your corpse!"
A few seconds passed—
Then, the click of a response.
"Copy," 777 replied flatly. "On my way. Should I bring party hats?"
"Bring your spine and move!"
Rick sprinted back toward the containment room. His boots slammed the metal like war drums. Lights flickered red now—emergency protocols kicking in.
The low hum of the lab turned into a deep, throbbing growl.
Warning. Reactor destabilized. Manual override unavailable.
The voice was mechanical. Deadpan. And way too calm for the situation.
Rick burst through the door. The baby still floated in the tank—peaceful. Unaware the world she'd been born into was about to rip itself apart.
777 came sliding in seconds later, flamethrower slung over one shoulder, sweat dripping down his neck.
"You weren't kidding," he said, eyes wide as the alarms blared. "What the hell did you do?"
"I read the damn lore."
Rick slammed a fist into the emergency tank release.
Clamps hissed. Steam burst out. The liquid drained.
Together, they lifted the tank—heavy, awkward, humming with unnatural warmth.
777 growled through his teeth. "This thing weighs more than my regrets."
"Shut up and move!" Rick snapped.
They bolted through the lab's dying corridors, hauling the tank between them as lights burst above their heads.
Doors hissed open, then sealed again behind them. One nearly clipped Rick's arm.
The final hallway loomed ahead.
Behind them—
A blast.
Something collapsed.
Flames licked through the air vents.
"Faster!" Rick yelled. "She didn't survive the womb just to get nuked by her own fucking origin story!"
They reached the exit.
777 jammed the override.
The outer hatch blew open—
And they burst into daylight.
Rick and 777 slammed the tank down just outside the blast radius.
The baby inside blinked slowly—unbothered.
Like none of this chaos was about her.
Then—
BOOM.
The lab behind them erupted in fire and sound, a plume of black and red tearing into the sky like it was trying to rewrite the clouds.
Steel shattered. Smoke rolled.
The place didn't just explode.
It ended.
And Rick… lit what was left of his cigar with a piece of molten shrapnel.
Both in sync "what just happened"