[Author's Note to Readers]
Hey there, readers—if any of you are out there.
Yeah, sorry for the blackout. I didn't ghost you, I just… touched grass.
It hit back.
But I'm back now. If you're alive and reading, comment something stupid. Let me know the void ain't empty.
Back to the chaos—
Rick's voice crackled through 777's earpiece, faint and grit-laced:
"It's time."
777's jaw flexed. "Copy that."
He moved fast—out the hut and into the thick hush of night.
His boots crunched over damp underbrush, the sound swallowed instantly by the dense fog curling through the trees. The air didn't just feel still—it felt staged, like the whole forest was waiting for something to scream first.
The van loomed ahead through the haze—black, boxy, and half-faded into the mist like a memory.
777 circled to the side panel, punching in the security code with fingers tighter than usual. The metal hissed as it unlocked.
Inside, the weapons crate sat like a throne of violence.
He threw it open.
And there it was.
Not clean. Not fancy. Not remotely legal.
The flamethrower looked like someone had built it during a war that never officially ended. Its frame was scarred. The tank dented. The nozzle stained like it had seen things it didn't want to remember.
But it worked.
777 heaved the fuel canister over his back, straps digging into his jacket.
He clicked the pilot ignition once. Twice.
It growled. Alive. Ready.
This wasn't just gear anymore.
This was personal.
He took a second—just one—and glanced back toward the forest line.
Somewhere in there, Rick was running point on a suicide theory.
Somewhere in there, that mimic thing was crawling closer.
777 muttered under his breath, voice like gravel soaked in gasoline:
"Alright, freak-show forest bastard… burn therapy's coming."
He slammed the van door shut behind him. The fog swallowed the sound.
Then, with one last breath and no backup, 777 turned toward the trees—
toward the dark.
Toward whatever the hell was waiting out there in the rot and silence.
And just like that…
he vanished into the woods.
Fog wrapped around him like it had weight. The trees loomed on either side, thick as walls, their branches twisted like they'd been frozen mid-scream. The forest didn't hum. It held its breath.
777 moved quick. Not reckless. But fast enough to let instinct take the wheel.
"Rick's at 1 o'clock," he muttered to himself, eyes locked on the blinking dot on his useless screen. "Too bad GPS is dead and the rest of our tech's taking a nap."
The signal flickered once, then vanished completely.
Then—
A scream.
Behind him.
Twisted. Warped. Nothing human left in it.
He didn't look back.
Didn't need to.
"Shit—thought Rick was keeping that thing busy. Why the hell is it behind me? Is there only one? Or two?"
His voice was barely a whisper now, breath catching as he pushed harder.
He didn't stop to think.
Didn't stop to breathe.
He jumped—arms hooking the nearest branch—and climbed with the kind of speed that comes from fear, muscle memory, and just enough bad decisions to qualify as bravery.
Higher.
Higher.
"Let's go ninja mode," he hissed under his breath, scrambling across branches like a rogue in a collapsing dungeon.
The flamethrower bounced uncomfortably against his back. He slung it forward, flipped the safety, and aimed.
Click.
Nothing.
"Shit," he cursed, checking the tank. "I knew I should've let Rick explain this stupid thing—"
The safety was fine. The tank was full. But something in the mist was killing the ignition spark.
The mimic had learned.
It was adapting.
Or worse—interfering again. Tech dead zone. EM pulses. Biological interference.
"Fantastic. The forest hates fire. And me."
He strapped the weapon tighter and bolted—branch to branch, quiet and fast.
Not clean.
Not elegant.
But it worked.
He was heading toward Rick's last known position—
because wherever that bastard was, fire or not, the only way out was through.
Then—
crackling over the comm, just above a whisper:
"777, come here. I neutralized that thing."
777 didn't slow down. His boots hit the next branch like a soft hammerfall.
He muttered under his breath, breathless but steady, "Yeah, and I'm the queen of England."
He adjusted the flamethrower's strap, eyes darting across the treeline, heart beating fast but focused.
"You think you can trick me using Rick's voice? Cute. Real cute," he said to no one in particular. "I know Rick damn well."
Another branch. Another leap. Closer now.
"The thing about Rick?" he continued, more to himself than anything, "His plans—they're silver linings. They shine like hope, but bend like hell once they're set in motion."
He smirked grimly, even as sweat slid down the side of his face.
"And if this is still part of the plan... it's already changed three times."
He dropped to the forest floor with a thud and rolled into a crouch.
The mist was thinner here. The trees opened slightly.
There was a clearing ahead.
Charred earth.
A faint smell of something cooked—but not food. Not right.
And standing in the middle of the clearing—
Rick.
Or at least... it looked like Rick.
Same posture. Same tilt of the head.
Even had that tired, "I've-seen-things" energy.
But something was off. Too still. Too symmetrical.
777 slowed down, flamethrower loose in his grip, eyeing him.
"I got something for you," he called out casually, like they were trading lunch orders.
The figure didn't move.
"Give that thing to me. Now," the mimic said, voice scraping just a fraction too flat—like someone trying to act normal after committing arson.
777 narrowed his eyes. Got a little closer. Not too close.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Give it to my? You always had shit grammar."
He took one slow step forward.
Then—spat.
A perfect arc of saliva hit the mimic's boot.
"Keep the present. Adiós, bitch."
And just like that, he turned and sprinted.
The mimic didn't say anything—
It screamed.
Not a voice this time.
Just raw distortion. Like a radio tearing itself apart.
Its skin peeled back mid-run, shedding the Rick illusion like meat from a wireframe. Bones cracked. Arms dislocated. Jaws unhinged too wide.
The forest trembled.
But 777?
He was already gone.
Back into the trees. Back toward Rick.
Cut to Rick:
He sprinted up to the concrete structure—boots slicing through fog, lungs burning with adrenaline and dirt. His palm slammed against the rusted metal door, and with a tortured screech, it gave way.
"Let's go inside this shit and see what you've got hiding in there," he muttered, voice low and pissed.
He slipped in.
Just as a gunshot cracked through the trees behind him—sharp, distant.
Not his.
Then the mimic's screech tore through the forest—
Too close.
But Rick was already inside.
Already moving.
Because if there were answers in this hellhole, they'd be buried under concrete, not swinging from trees.
And if not—
He'd make some.
Inside, the air felt wrong.
It wasn't just heavy.
It pressed on his skin.
Thick with copper. Still with rot.
Like the room had been holding its breath for too long and had forgotten how to exhale.
Rick's boots echoed off cracked concrete—slow, deliberate.
Walls lined with rusted panels and emergency warnings long smeared with dried gore.
Overturned surgical carts. Flickering lights trying to give up quietly.
Some had already died, buzzing faintly like ghosts.
Then—
He saw them.
Bodies.
A lot of them.
Some slumped against the wall like they never saw it coming.
White lab coats soaked in rust-colored patches.
Others were just heaps of bone and blackened tissue—guards, judging by the shredded tactical gear.
Weapons bent. Fingers snapped.
And some…
Some didn't have faces.
Just raw muscle. Peeled. Precise. Like something had removed their identities and logged them for future use.
Rick didn't blink.
Didn't slow.
He stepped forward and kicked a severed head out of his path—dry, skinless, but still grinning like it had died mid-panic.
"Yeah," he muttered, scanning the shadows, "this is what happens when you play god with nature."
The head rolled across the floor and tapped softly against the base of a shattered containment tank.
Inside, something sloshed. Something wet.
He didn't look away.
Rick stared up at the flickering red light overhead—just for a second.
The hallway ahead whispered with something shifting.
And he smiled. Just slightly.
"Welcome to the hellscape."
He raised his pistol.
Because something was moving in the next corridor.
And whatever it was—
It wasn't dead yet.
Then everything went still.
Silent.
Like the air itself paused to listen.
Rick exhaled slowly and lowered his pistol.
The metal clicked back into its holster.
"Time for some goddamn answers," he muttered. "Let's see what you freaks were cooking in here."
He moved deeper.
The lab unfolded in broken pieces—hallways splintered by years of abandonment and trauma. Fluorescent lights hung from exposed wires like vines in a forgotten jungle.
Each room he entered told a new kind of horror story.
Room A3—shattered cryo pods. One still hummed faintly. The inside was empty.
Room B1—an operating table tilted at a 45-degree angle, dried restraints twisted like someone had tried to chew through them.
Room C0—computers still blinking on backup power, running code that had no end. Screens flickered with words like: "Phase VI failure." "DNA mismatch." "Cognitive instability."
"Someone was here," Rick whispered, eyes scanning over overturned chairs and faint trails of dried blood.
Then—
Another door. Rusted halfway open.
He slipped through and entered a room larger than the rest.
And in the far corner…
A containment tank.
Its glass was fogged. The fluid inside churned, murky and green. Something floated at the center—featureless, shapeless, like flesh that hadn't decided what to become yet.
Rick stepped closer.
Just a peek.
He was two feet from the tank when—
CRACK.
The tile beneath his boot snapped in two.
His foot slipped.
"Shit—" he hissed, throwing out a hand to catch himself.
He grabbed onto the nearby wall console.
And accidentally slammed his palm into a blinking red button.
The screen flared to life.
ACTIVATION SEQUENCE: INITIATED
Metal arms slammed out from hidden panels, clamping around his wrists like cuffs from hell.
"Ah, shit," Rick growled, yanking against them. "I'm dead meat."
He glanced toward his wrist—toward the tiny embedded speaker linked to his offline AI system.
"Jennifer, load message in comm. Now."
Her voice crackled to life. Cold. Distorted. But still functioning.
"Recording started."
Rick didn't waste time.
"777. I might be fucked. Do not come near me. This is either a trap or a test. Either way—I need you alive."
He winced as the metal grip tightened.
"Jennifer, load this log into proxy connection. Use I-API fallback route. Encrypt and ping the van."
"Affirmative," she responded, even as the speaker flickered.
Then—
A slot opened directly in front of the button.
And out slid a needle.
Rick tried to twist away—tried to yank his wrist loose—but it was no use.
STAB.
The needle plunged into his vein, fast and deep.
"AGH—!" he bit down on the pain, eyes wide, muscles tensed.
He could feel it.
Not just the puncture—
The pull.
It was draining blood.
Not just a sample.
Not just a test.
Extraction.
Rick could feel it pulling—thick and wrong.
His vision blurred, pressure dropping just slightly in his skull.
Inside the containment tank… something stirred.
Then—
Click.
The metal clamps unlatched from his arms. Cold freedom.
He staggered back, rubbing the injection site, breath sharp and shallow.
"It… took my blood," he muttered, eyeing the console.
The flickering screen blinked to life. Lines of text began scrolling.
[TWO BLOOD SAMPLES RECEIVED]
[INITIATING REPLICATION PROTOCOL]
[SYNTHESIS: ARTIFICIAL LIFEFORM—IN PROGRESS]
"Shit," Rick hissed.
He pulled both pistols in one fluid motion, aimed them square at the tank.
Something was forming.
In the green fluid—
A shape began to twist together.
At first, it looked like smoke underwater. Strings of muscle. Veins threading together. Bone stitching itself like clay across nothingness.
Then came the outline.
Small.
Fragile.
Human.
A baby.
Limbs curled tight. Spine developing in real time. Eyes sealed. Heartbeat flickering on the screen—already pulsing.
Rick's finger hovered on the trigger.
But he didn't shoot.
Not yet.
Because it looked too much like… Tobey.
The tank's light pulsed steady now—like a heartbeat.
The baby floated in the golden-green fluid, spine curled, fingers twitching just slightly.
It wasn't finished. But it was alive.
Rick didn't lower his gun.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
He stepped closer.
The liquid shimmered thick like synthetic amniotic gel, clinging to the infant's forming skin—as if reluctant to let go.
His finger twitched on the trigger.
"You're telling me they used my blood… and built this?"
He stared at the thing inside.
It was Tobey.
Almost.
But not.
Smaller.
Thinner.
Too precise.
Less alive.
More… manufactured.
He leveled his pistol again.
Sight lined up. Finger tightening. Logic screaming Shoot. End it.
And yet—
He didn't.
[SYNTHESIS: 91%]
[SENSOR STATUS: ACTIVE]
[LIFEFORM: STABLE]
[BRAIN FUNCTION: BEGINNING]
Rick's eyes narrowed.
"Brain function," he muttered.
That changed everything.
"Jennifer," he said aloud—despite knowing comms were still shot.
"Tell me this isn't what I think it is."
No reply.
Just the hum of a machine keeping something impossible alive.
He looked away for a second—just long enough to breathe.
To reset.
But there—his reflection on the tank's surface.
Not him now.
Him then.
The man who once swore:
"No kid ends up in a lab. Not on my watch."
He turned back.
The child floated, motionless.
No glitch.
No whisper.
No lie.
Just… waiting.
"…You're not human," Rick whispered.
[SYNTHESIS: 100% COMPLETE]
[LIFEFORM BREATHING…]
[EYES OPENING]
Rick's hand trembled.
A soft, wet gasp rose from inside the tank.
Two tiny eyes opened.
Unfocused. Glassy. New.
They blinked—then found him.
Locked on.
And in them—no horror. No mimic.
Only recognition.
Like she knew him.
Rick muttered, "What the fuck are you…? You're not Tobey. Hell, you're not even male…"
He swallowed hard.
"You're a she."
His arm dropped slightly.
"What should I do? Kill you? You're just a baby… but you were made in a lab. From my blood."
He stood there, weapon still trembling in his hand.
"I think…" he exhaled sharply, "I'll take you in. Containment only. Yeah. This is exactly how horror movies start. I don't trust you. I don't trust anyone."
He stared at her—this synthetic child born from god knows what, made in the dark.
Not Tobey.
Not human.
But breathing.
Watching.
And completely, terrifyingly… real.