Rick leaned back in the chair, arms folded, gaze locked on the smoldering woods outside the hut's window. The glow of the fire pendulum flickered across his face like it was casting judgment.
"The shit's going back to hell," he muttered, calm and cold again.
777, leaning against the wooden wall, one boot balanced heel-first like he didn't have a care in the world, lit a cigarette with a scratch of flame. Smoke curled up past his tired eyes.
"Madman got his sanity back," he said with a smirk.
He flicked open a small case, held out a cigar. "Want a hit?"
Rick didn't even glance over. "Smoking kills."
"This one's different."
"Nah, I'm good."
"Suit yourself." 777 shrugged and stuffed the cigar back in the case. He took a slow drag, watching the ember glow.
"Alright then, genius. What's the plan for dealing with that thing?" he asked, flicking ash toward the dirt floor.
Rick tilted his chin toward the window. "You see that fire pendulum outside?"
777's eyes followed the direction. The slow, deliberate arc of flame outside was still burning like a ritual in motion—each swing casting eerie shadows through the trees.
"Oh… I got you now," 777 nodded, catching on.
Rick didn't answer. He didn't need to.
777 pushed off the wall with a grunt, stepping outside with his cigarette trailing smoke behind him. The cold air bit through his jacket instantly. He took another drag.
The fire swung on its chain, creaking like something ancient and hungry—each pass slicing light through the fog like a metronome of dread.
"Let's see what we've got on the table," 777 muttered.
He flicked the end of his cigar, dropped it, and stamped it out with his boot like he was squashing the last peaceful moment.
Then he turned, shoulders tense, and stepped back into the hut.
From Rick's coat pocket, Jennifer's voice glitched alive through the offline module—static hitching every syllable like a broken signal trying to remember how to breathe.
"I'm back online… but there's still interference. No connection to main base… van… drone net… or primary AI node. Three drones are out of operation."
"That thing—whatever it is—must be jamming signals," 777 said flatly, eyes dull like someone who had accepted this wasn't the worst thing today.
"Yes," Jennifer replied. "Interference localized. Biological origin likely."
Rick smiled. That smile.
The one that never meant anything good.
"Well," he said, cracking his neck, "we've still got the flamethrower in the van."
777 sighed, already regretting being here. "I knew you'd eventually snap and burn a forest down."
Rick shrugged. "I think there's only one creature."
"That smile's illegal," 777 muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Stop doing that."
"Alright. Let's make it fair," Rick said, pulling a coin from his pocket. "We flip. Loser's the bait."
"You always win the flip," 777 laughed dryly. "I'll end up bait either way."
"Choose a side."
"Tail."
Rick flipped it—an easy, practiced motion.
The coin danced in the air, caught the firelight, spun once, then slapped into his palm.
Tail.
Rick smirked.
777 squinted, suspicious. "Of course—wait. What? I win?"
Rick clapped a hand on his shoulder like he was giving out an award. "Congrats. You've just been selected to retrieve the flamethrower while I bait the monster's ass."
777 blinked. "That... wasn't the deal."
Rick just grinned wider. "Welcome to improvisational strategy."
Now, you're probably wondering—why fire?
Simple.
Because outside, that fire pendulum still swung in perfect arcs—burning, marking time—and the creature never once came near it.
Not during the screams.
Not during the mimicry.
Not even when Rick ran like a man possessed.
It stayed away.
Rick and 777 had both noticed.
"Fire," Rick muttered, pacing slowly, "isn't just a deterrent. It's a weakness. Maybe even a warning. Whatever stitched that thing together doesn't want heat."
He turned toward the door, loading another mag into his pistol with a calm precision that came way too easy.
"And we're gonna test that theory."
777, sighing, pulled on his jacket like it was a bulletproof hoodie. "This better not turn into one of your 'psychotic genius' experiments again."
Rick just smiled.
That same smile.
The one that meant chaos was now officially on the table.
Rick glanced toward the window, shadows stretching long across the forest floor.
"Jennifer, how's our comms channel?"
Her voice buzzed through the glitchy speaker on his coat—fragmented, static clinging to every syllable.
"...Still unstable. But… usable."
Rick turned to 777, voice calm. "You heard that."
777 nodded once. "Yeah."
Rick checked his pistol, then met 777's eyes. "Bring the flamethrower to the hut when I give you the signal."
He stood, slow and deliberate, stepping toward the door like a man heading into a storm he already knew was coming.
As his hand hit the doorknob, 777 reached out—gripping Rick's shoulder firmly, grounding him for just a second.
"Don't do anything reckless," he said, low and sincere.
Rick gave a sideways smile. "You know me."
"That's exactly why I'm saying it."
Rick didn't argue. Just nodded once, then opened the door.
He paused on the threshold, staring into the woods like he was walking into an old grudge.
"Mad man going into the dark," he said.
"Take care, mate," 777 replied, softer than usual.
Rick stepped out—and the woods swallowed him like a secret.
The door creaked shut behind him, leaving 777 alone in the flickering firelight, watching the shadows stretch where Rick had vanished.
Out there, in the thick and haunted dark, the fog curled tighter.
And Rick… disappeared into it without looking back.
Silence fell inside the hut.
The fire pendulum outside groaned on its chain, still swinging in perfect arcs like it was counting down something unspeakable.
777 stood at the door, eyes fixed on the spot where Rick vanished. He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Then—
Hiss.
A burst of static fizzled in his earpiece, the signal catching like a whisper on the edge of a scream.
Rick's voice, just barely:
"It's time."
777's jaw locked. "Copy that."
He moved.
Out the door and into the night, boots crunching over brittle underbrush as he made a beeline through the fog. The air was thick, humming with an unnatural stillness—like the forest had paused just to listen to him.
The van loomed ahead, barely visible through the gray veil, its dark frame hunched like something sleeping in the mist. He slid around to the side, punched in the access code with shaking fingers, and the door hissed open.
Inside, the weapons case waited
777 pulled it free.
The flamethrower wasn't sleek or modern. It was a heavy, scorched relic—modified by hands that had clearly built it to melt more than just brush.
He slung the fuel canister over his shoulder and checked the nozzle with practiced precision.
No room for error.
Not tonight.
Then, just before stepping away, he glanced toward the dark tree line.
And muttered, "Alright, you freak-show forest bastard… burn therapy's coming."
He slammed the van shut, adjusted the grip on the weapon, and turned toward the woods—
where Rick had vanished.
Where the real game was just beginning.