The wind blew again—heavier this time, like it carried weight.
A whiff of engine oil tainted the air. And beneath it… something faint.
Sweet.
Metallic.
Rick froze.
"…Blood?"
777's head tilted. His posture tightened.
"You smell that too?"
Their gazes locked on the shadows beyond the shed.
Something had happened here.
And whatever it was—
It wasn't over.
"Shit," Rick muttered.
"Things just got dark," 777 said, his voice low and measured. "Good thing we're ready. Let's check that mess."
"Yeah. Fast."
They rushed forward, boots sinking into mud thick with crimson. The blood had soaked deep into the soil—dark, glossy, and freshly churned.
Rain hadn't had time to wash it away.
It was still warm.
Still wet.
No body.
No footprints.
No drag marks.
Just the smudged smear of something violent, then… gone.
"Now what?" 777 muttered. "No body, just blood?"
Rick didn't hesitate.
"Jennifer, send a sample collection drone."
A soft chime pulsed in his earpiece.
"One fast-sample drone deployed," the AI confirmed.
"We need to open that shed. Now."
He paused, eyes scanning. Calculating.
"777, collect the blood samples. I'll crack open that son of a bitch."
"Copy."
The drone hovered into view, a sleek silver thing with buzzing rotors and a sharp, angular body.
"Drone hovering near you, 777," said Jennifer.
"Got it." 777 guided the drone low, watching as a slim arm extended to siphon the wet blood from the mud.
"Deploy a drone with wireless data capture capabilities," Rick added.
"Sir, we don't have an all-in-one wireless capture drone at this location," Jennifer responded. "Three separate units are available at the base of operation. The type you're requesting is stationed at our main base in Japan."
"Send whatever's available."
"Deploying DCWLV1, DCWLV2, and DCWLV3."
"Sample loaded. Recalling the drone," 777 called out.
"Acknowledged," said Jennifer.
"Alright, Fx-Spider," 777 muttered under his breath, watching the data stream across his visor. "You're working with the DCWLV series now."
Rick turned slightly. "Got a question for you."
"Hit me."
"Why the hell don't we just use all-in-one drones?"
"You're starting to sound stressed, man." 777 smirked. "But alright, listen up—
First off, all-in-one drones are bulky. Like, obnoxiously heavy. You need a whole team to move one without turning it into a damn parade.
Second? They're expensive as hell. One breaks mid-mission and congrats—you just lost half the ops budget.
Third, repairs? A nightmare. Fry one component and the whole system's toast.
And last? Flexibility. With modular units, we deploy exactly what we need, from wherever we need. Try moving a tank when a bike'll do the trick."
Rick didn't answer. He just gave a grim nod and looked toward the shed.
"Jennifer, deploy a multipurpose search drone. Scan for wired connections in and around the structure."
"Copy that. Multipurpose drone deployed from base of operation."
"DCWLV units have arrived. Awaiting orders."
"Scan for any wireless communications from the shed," Rick said. "Anything it might be talking to."
"Roger that. Beginning scan."
"How much time left on the drone I requested?" 777 asked.
"Sir, the drone units are already active and scanning. Also—update: the shed is not communicating wirelessly with any external device."
"Good," Rick said. "Deploy a drone to jam wireless communications. No signals in, no signals out."
"Negative. Jammer not required. DCWLV units are equipped with wireless interference protocols. Zone is already isolated."
"Guess you'll have to wait, Rick," 777 said, watching him with a tilt of his head.
"I know. I'll grab the laser cutter from the van in the meantime."
"Update," Jennifer announced. "Two physical cables are connected to the shed. One is a standard electrical power line. The other is a fiber optic cable."
"…What?" 777 turned toward the shed. "A fiber optic line?"
"That's not standard for a storage shed," Rick muttered.
"Jennifer, guide me to the fiber optic cable."
"Yes, sir. Follow the lead drone—designated DCWLV1."
The small drone dipped forward, undercarriage lights cutting through the mist like scalpels. A high-pitched hum buzzed faintly as it slid ahead through wet grass and twisted metal.
777 followed close, boots crunching on gravel and dead leaves. The fog curled around his legs, and every step kicked up the scent of rust and earth.
The drone ducked beneath a bent pipe, soared over a snapped board, and came to an abrupt stop beside a patch of disturbed soil on the shed's far left.
Its light settled on a small rectangular junction box—half-buried, blinking once with a faint green pulse.
"Fiber optic line is routed through a sub-surface relay node," Jennifer said. "Connection appears stabilized and active. Estimated uplink integrity: 94%."
777 crouched low, mud soaking into his pants as he brushed away the dirt.
"…This isn't old hardware. This is military grade."
He traced the line with one gloved finger, tension in his shoulders building.
"This thing isn't just relaying data—it's pulling from something." He looked up. "Rick, we might be sitting on something serious."
"You saying this shed has a backdoor to something bigger?" Rick asked over comms.
"Bigger than it should be. And if someone tried to erase evidence—this line could've been the exit route."
He stood. "While you're at the van, bring me the case labeled FORAPC."
"Roger that. On it."
[At the van]
Rain tapped against the armored vehicle, light at first, then heavier, like a countdown.
Rick popped the back doors. Inside, LED strips glowed softly across organized rows of gear. Each case was labeled with precise, almost surgical efficiency.
FORAPC.
Third shelf.
Black. Heavy.
He grabbed it, slammed the doors shut, and ran back, boots thudding against the ground, splashing mud with every step.
[Back at the shed]
Rick dropped the case next to 777 with a thud.
"Here's your briefcase, hacker boy."
777 flipped the latches and opened the case. Inside sat a black box—sleek, unbranded, matte as obsidian.
"What's that thing supposed to do?" Rick asked, eyeing it.
"It listens," 777 said with a smirk. "And remembers everything the shed wants to forget."
He took out two slim couplers. Then—
Snap.
Clean cut through the fiber optic cable. No hesitation.
One end into the left port.
Click.
The other into the right.
Click.
The box hummed—quiet, like an exhale.
"Foreign connection detected. Passive intercept protocol initiated," Jennifer reported.
"She's listening now."
"And what are we hoping she hears?" Rick asked.
"Secrets."
777 stood up, wiping grime from his gloves as the lights on his wristband synced with the device.
"If someone was sending data through this cable, this box will reconstruct the fragments."
"Estimated time until initial packet recovery: three minutes," Jennifer added.
"Good," Rick said. "Because I have a really bad feeling about what's inside that shed."
He flexed his fingers. Cracked his knuckles. Breathed once, slow and deep.
"Jennifer, isolate the shed. Cut it off from the outside. Power. Net. Everything."
"Affirmative. The shed is now completely disconnected."
No signals in. No signals out.
Just steel, secrets, and the whispering rain.
Rick pulled the laser cutter from his holster. A hiss. A flare of red light.
The beam ignited, sharp and lethal, carving a molten line along the shed's doorframe. Sparks flew and danced in the mist.
Behind him, 777 watched silently, the black box pulsing in the shadows.
"Warning," Jennifer said. "Internal temperature rising. Something inside is responding."
"…Oh, we just poked something alive," 777 murmured.
"Too late now," Rick said.
The beam hit the latch.
CLANK.
He stepped back, then drove his boot forward—metal buckled.
The door swung open.
And the darkness inside stared back.
What's Actually Happening Here:
The shed has a fiber optic cable, which is super fast and usually used to transfer important data.
777 suspects someone used that cable to send out info secretly—maybe something shady or top secret.
He cuts the cable and connects it to a black box (from the FORAPC case) that acts like a spy tool—its job is to listen in, reconstruct past data transfers, and maybe even hack into what was being sent or received.
When Jennifer (their AI system) says "Passive intercept protocol initiated," it means the black box is quietly watching the data stream like a ninja—not interfering, just copying and decoding anything it finds.
777 is basically saying: "If this shed was used to send out secrets, my little black box is gonna snatch those receipts and piece the puzzle back together."
And Jennifer says it'll take about three minutes to start pulling up that data.
Rick, sensing the vibes are off, is like: "Cool, but I swear this place is cursed and something's inside that damn shed."
And note That I am taking 1 day off