The rooftop breathed violence.
The wind howled again—razor-sharp and wordless, like it was screaming a prophecy only madness could translate.
Rick's voice cut through it like a bullet.
"You know who I am?"
No reply.
Just 470 drones whispering in the air, spiraling like vultures made of metal and code.
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate.
"I asked a question."
Still nothing.
But the tilt of her head was enough. A nod. A taunt. Or something worse.
Rick's eyes hardened.
"Alright then. Let's do it the hard way."
He fired.
The pistol barked—a shot straight for her leg.
CLANG!
She deflected it. Her katana flashed once, catching the bullet mid-air like she was swatting a fly.
And then—
She charged.
Like a ghost dressed for war, coat flaring behind her like wings of shadow. Her katana aimed for blood.
Rick raised his arm and kicked at her blade, knocking it sideways—but the momentum forced them both into a tangled mess.
Their pistols clattered across the rooftop, skidding into darkness.
Now it was bare hands. Grit. Guts. Training.
The fight began.
She struck first—low jab to Rick's ribs.
He blocked, twisted her wrist, went for a takedown—
She flipped him using the momentum, slamming him into the gravel rooftop.
Rick grunted. Rolled. Swung a boot to trip her—
But she twisted mid-air, using the large backpack to shield her body.
It slammed into Rick's shoulder, knocking his balance off.
He tried to go for it—grab the bag—
But she spun around fast—much faster than she should've—and kicked his hand away.
Then she stepped back, hand immediately going to the straps, securing them tighter.
The way she moved—like a cornered wolf protecting its cub.
Rick spat blood, panting.
"What the hell you got in that giant backpack?!"
No answer.
But the way she shifted her stance, keeping the pack behind her, said it all.
He narrowed his eyes.
"You're not just carrying gear in there…"
Rick grunted, forcing his weight onto his palms as he tried to stand.
His knees buckled.
Blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
But he wasn't done yet.
He lunged—clumsy but direct—toward her.
Not at her face.
Not her weapon.
At the bag.
That was the moment.
She flinched.
Just slightly.
But it was there.
A tremor in the shoulder. A delay in the counterstrike.
Fear?
Instinct?
Whatever it was, it wasn't combat training.
Her reaction betrayed something raw. Something... protective.
She kept the pack behind her like a mother shielding a child.
Rick saw it.
Even through his split vision.
Even through the pain.
"…So that's it," he rasped.
The moment cost him.
Her boot slammed into his chest.
He flew back and hit the rooftop hard.
Wind knocked out of him. Cracks spread deeper across his mask. A gash opened over his brow.
She didn't chase him.
Didn't go for the kill.
She turned.
Checking the backpack.
Her gloved hand tightened around the strap.
Like it was fragile. Precious. Alive.
Rick coughed, blood flecking his lips.
"You didn't… answer… my question…"
But she was already moving—backing away.
Click.
She pulled a grenade from the bag. Small. Metallic. Deadly.
She threw it.
Over the edge—toward the truck.
BOOOOOM.
The sky lit up orange.
A shockwave followed, rumbling the rooftop as smoke and fire erupted below.
Inside the van, 777 yanked the wheel, jerking it clear from the blast radius.
"Shit! The truck! Rick!"
Jennifer's voice buzzed, distorted.
"Shifting drone path processing and control to van CPU and GPU."
777 gritted his teeth. "Well… at least his damn 'I' API is still carrying us. Truly goated. Operation Save Rick's Ass starts now!"
Back on the roof—
She stepped toward Rick again.
Slow.
She lifted his own pistol. Pointed it straight at his gasmasked face.
But before she could fire—
BZZT!
A drone zipped in, blocking her aim.
She paused.
Didn't shoot.
Instead—she pulled out an EMP grenade.
Flicked the pin.
Tossed it high.
BOOM.
A flash. A pulse.
Every drone in the sky stuttered… and dropped.
One by one, like dying birds, they spiraled and smashed across the town.
"Shit shit shit!" 777 slammed the van door open and ran inside the building.
Boots hammering against rotten stairs. He didn't care.
Only one thought:
Get to Rick.
The rooftop.
She stood over Rick now, quiet again.
Her pistol hovered over him.
And then—she leaned closer.
Looked through the cracked lens of his gas mask.
Saw his eyes.
Something shifted.
She didn't shoot.
She just… turned.
And disappeared into the shadows.
Footsteps pounded behind.
"RICK!"
777 burst through the hatch.
He saw Rick lying there, half-conscious, mask fractured, blood soaked into his jacket.
"I told you not to die on me, asshole…"
He dropped to his knees, lifted Rick into his arms, and carried him down—each step echoing with urgency and grit.
Inside the van:
777 laid Rick across the seat, hands moving fast—ripping open the med kit, gauze, tape, whatever he could grab. Blood soaked Rick's side, but he was breathing. Barely.
"Jennifer, clean up the drone wreck. And tell me where the nearest hospital is."
"Nearest facility: 2.4 kilometers southeast. Routing now."
"Good. Do it."
He shoved the gear into drive.
The van jerked forward—tires screeching, frame rattling, leaving behind the flaming carcass of the Hive truck. A trail of smoke spiraled into the night, chasing after them like a curse.
On the broken pavement behind them, a single drone still twitched—its lights flickering, its lens cracked. Smoke hissed from its core.
Like the last breath of a war that never should've happened.
And inside that oversized backpack she'd carried?
Something small.
Something silent.
Something… waiting.
But no one—not Rick, not 777—knew what she had just walked away with.