The simulation ended. Reality kicked in.
Wind screamed across the open lot as the van's roof panels folded back with a metallic hiss, releasing a surge of air pressure.
Inside the modified truck bed, five hundred matte-black drones began to rise—silent rotors whirring to life, tracer lights blinking blue like tiny electronic heartbeats. A low mechanical hum filled the night air, eerie in its coordination. Like a swarm of wasps preparing to strike.
"Beginning launch protocol," Jennifer announced, calm as ever. "All units synchronized to hive-mesh."
A ripple shot through the swarm.
And then—
FWOOSH.
They blasted into the sky in coordinated waves—spiraling upward like black embers flung into the wind. Their lights disappeared into the darkness, and soon only 777's tablet glowed with red blips: hundreds of live video feeds blinking to life like opening eyes.
Alleyways. Rooftops. Empty lots. Cracked roads. Shifting shadows. Flickering bulbs.
777's fingers flew across the screen. "Jennifer, any anomaly pings?"
"Matching object detected. Building ID 0347-B, east quadrant. One humanoid figure. Masked. No thermal read. No heartbeat."
The feed zoomed in.
A pale mask stared back from the fourth-floor window of a rotting apartment building.
Still. Watching. Waiting.
"Holy shit…" 777 muttered. "That's her."
Rick didn't even flinch. He sipped his drink, still watching the sky like it owed him money.
"Well then," he muttered. "Guess we're not done after all."
He chucked the can behind him, stood up, and barked, "Get in the van. I'm about to kick her ass. And where's my gas mask?"
"You do remember the drones are equipped with sleeping gas, right?" 777 asked, already opening the rear hatch.
Rick smirked. "Yeah, but I'm Rick. I like options."
"Yeah yeah, you're a whole personality disorder," 777 muttered as they climbed inside.
Inside the Van – Chaos Begins
Rick hit the gas. The van lurched forward, tires screeching on gravel. The engine rumbled like a growling beast, headlights slicing through fog as they tore down the road toward the building.
777 was in the back, clawing through crates, metal and plastic clattering everywhere.
"Jennifer, redirect all drones to the target. Full suppression mode," he shouted.
"Redirecting now."
Outside, the DR-Hive truck rumbled to life, following close behind, armored wheels chewing through asphalt.
Rick hit a sharp turn.
"Jesus CHRIST," 777 shouted, slamming into the side panel. "A little warning?!"
"Sorry," Rick said. He wasn't.
The van whipped around another corner, tires bouncing over a pothole. Crates flew. 777's tablet nearly fell out of his hand.
"Okay—I found the masks!" 777 yelled. "But there's a problem."
"Speak up."
"One's broken. I fell on it."
Rick didn't even hesitate. "Then you're drone-boy. I'm going in."
"Fine," 777 muttered. "I'll command the air force."
He focused back on the screen. "Jennifer—target moved. She's on the hotel roof. Initiate sleeping gas spray."
The feed zoomed in.
A drone swept in low, hovering just meters from the woman. The mask glinted under the moonlight. Still unmoving.
PSSSHHT.
A burst of sleep gas sprayed directly at her face.
Direct hit.
777 grinned. "Bullseye. Night-night, lady."
The feed cut out.
"Drone down," Jennifer reported. "Signal lost."
"What the fuck…" 777 muttered. He tapped into another drone.
The masked woman was still on the roof—but now she was moving. Slowly. Deliberately. Sword unsheathed.
"Yo, Rick," 777 called. "We've got a situation."
"What now, dumbass?" Rick replied, still driving.
"What's worse than a creepy masked woman?"
"I dunno. Taxes?"
"Try one that's resistant to sleep gas, has a katana, and a silenced pistol."
Rick grunted. "Great. Anything on Tobey?"
"Drones are using infrared, not thermal. No clear signs yet."
"Alright. I'll handle this. Interrogation style. You keep the swarm moving."
The Building Comes into View
Rick pulled up near the apartment building. He got out calmly. 777 stayed behind, eyes on the swarm.
Above them, 499 drones circled the rooftop like vultures, their blue lights casting swirling shadows on the cracked cement.
Each one humming like a warning.
Rick looked up, face lit by the eerie glow.
"She's taken six direct gas hits. Still standing. And now she's cutting them down."
"Rick," 777 said through the earpiece. "She might not be human."
Rick cracked his neck.
"Then she's in for one hell of an identity crisis."
And with that, Rick walked toward the building gate, shadows peeling back like scared dogs.
"Fuck you!" Rick barked without looking back.
"Yeah, fuck you too!" 777 shot back from the van, fingers glued to the drone controls.
The lobby door groaned open as Rick shoved it with his shoulder. The rusted hinges wailed like something dying. Inside, the hotel was half-dust, half-forgotten history—walls peeling, lights flickering, mold creeping up the corners like rot in a corpse's smile.
He didn't speak. Didn't slow.
Every footstep echoed with too much space. Too much silence.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
He passed the broken elevator. Of course, it wasn't working. This wasn't a world where elevators worked.
Rick exhaled sharply through his nose. "Stairs it is."
The Climb
Each floor was worse than the last. Narrow stairwell. Dust thick in the air. Railings rusted to the bone.
By the second floor, something creaked behind him. He didn't look.
By the third, the smell hit—a mix of rust, wet stone, and something that used to be alive.
At the fourth landing, the stairwell narrowed. The last few steps to the roof were metal, bolted on later. Barely holding.
Creeaak. Creeeaaak.
Each step moaned under his weight.
He reached the top.
Pushed the metal hatch open.
It didn't resist.
The Roof
The cold air hit first. Sharp. Thin. Dry like it had been filtered through ancient lungs.
The sky was bruised with clouds—deep purple veins stretching across black. The stars blinked, but even they seemed unsure.
The roof was wide and flat, ringed with a broken chainlink fence that did nothing to stop wind—or anything worse.
And in the middle?
She stood.
The masked woman.
Still as a statue. Her pale, bone-white mask caught what little moonlight reached them. Long dark coat shifting in the breeze like it was alive. One hand holding a katana low by her side, blade slick and black. The other, a pistol—angled downward, not aimed. Yet.
Drones hovered above her—circling like angry spirits. Their lights reflected off her mask, blinking red and blue across its emotionless surface.
She didn't move.
She just watched.
Rick stepped forward. Slowly. Not reaching for his gun. Not reaching for anything.
The rooftop concrete was cold beneath his boots.
He stopped five meters away.
The wind howled once, sharp and sudden, like it tried to scream something no one could understand.
Rick's voice cut through it like a knife:
"You know who I am?"
Nothing.
Just the sound of 470 drones hovering in a slow spiral above.
He took another step forward. Careful.
"I asked a question."
Still nothing.
But her head tilted. Slightly. Barely. Like she was acknowledging him… or mocking him.
Rick narrowed his eyes.
"Alright then. Let's do it the hard way."