Now we're back at the base of operations.
After that chaos.
For anyone wondering what the base actually looks like—
It's nothing special at first glance.
From the outside, it could pass as any old suburban house.
Small. Compact.
Tired paint peeling off the wood siding. A weathered fence.
The kind of place people drive past without ever remembering.
Parked outside:
One Vassp motorcycle.
One truck.
No car. No luxury.
Inside?
That's where things get interesting.
Beneath the normal facade, there's an underground server room—walls lined with humming racks and blinking LEDs.
You could probably launch a digital war from that little bunker if you knew which cables to pull.
Security?
Best in the business.
Motion sensors. Pressure plates.
Biometric locks on every damn door.
There's a containment cell, too—
Heavy doors. Reinforced walls.
Built for the day when something—or someone—has to be locked away and forgotten.
And then there's the living space.
If you can even call it that.
One useable room.
One gas burner sitting on a cracked counter.
One old metal wardrobe with dents like it's been punched more than once.
No bed.
No photos.
No personality.
Just enough to exist.
Nothing more.
A place built for survival.
Not for living.
And somehow, it feels heavier than the storm still raging outside.
And van just came back from shed.
The garage door groaned open with a mechanical whine as they pulled in.
Steel beams. Concrete walls.
Functional. Sterile.
No signs of life—just enough space to hide from the world.
Rick glanced around, then sighed.
Rick:
"This is the base of operations."
777:
"Yes, sir."
777 parked the van neatly inside the garage, engine cutting out with a low final grumble.
Rick hopped out, boots hitting the slick floor with a dull thud.
From inside the van, 777 called out—half bored, half concerned:
777:
"Wait—! You need the password to open the main door.
And it's really long."
Rick smirked like a man way past giving a damn.
Rick:
"Long enough to fit in your ass?"
He didn't even wait.
Just turned toward the door and spoke coolly into the air:
Rick:
"Jennifer. You know what to do."
Jennifer cheerfully:
"Yes, sir. Opening the door now."
The heavy security locks clattered and slid with a mechanical hiss, the massive reinforced door creaking open on its own.
777 stuck his head out the van window, eyes wide:
777:
"…How the fuck in hell did she open the door?!"
Rick (without missing a beat):
"Bring that suspect inside instead."
He walked off toward the entry like he hadn't just broken protocol in front of the most paranoid tech-nerd on Earth.
Jennifer's voice chimed sweetly through the van speakers:
Jennifer:
"There is a containment cell available.
Would you like me to provide directions?"
Rick grinning faintly:
"Yes, please."
777 just sat there, staring at the steering wheel, like it personally betrayed him.
777 muttering under his breath:
"How did Shalit manage to break this man…"
The rain hammered harder against the garage roof, a relentless rhythm that made everything feel slower.
Heavier.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled low—
like even the sky couldn't believe how cooked Rick's brain was getting.
777 dragged the suspect—still half-conscious, barely fighting—into the underground containment cell.
Metal walls. Single chair bolted to the floor.
No windows. No hope.
He locked the suspect into the chair, secured the restraints, double-checked the seals...
Then turned around—
—and froze.
Rick was standing just outside the cell.
Completely calm.
Completely unreal.
Sipping from a steaming mug of coffee like he was on his lunch break.
The man hadn't even broken stride.
[A few minutes earlier, on Rick's way to the cell…]
Rick trudged down the hallway, boots leaving wet prints across the concrete floor.
Jennifer overhead speakers, warmly:
"Dad, I made you a coffee."
Rick blinked, caught off guard.
Rick:
"Aww, I would love to have it… but I have a question first."
Jennifer:
"Go ahead."
Rick slowed, glancing sideways at the blank walls, half-smirking.
Rick:
"Knowing 777, he wouldn't have set up a coffee machine down here.
He thinks caffeine is 'non-essential tech.'" (he said it in a mocking nerd voice)
Jennifer proudly:
"I calculated that you might come here emotionally compromised.
So I built a coffee unit myself."
Rick actually stopped walking, lips parting in a stunned half-laugh.
Rick:
"...You built a coffee machine because you knew I'd lose it?"
Jennifer brightly:
"Yes, Dad.
Just the way you love it.
Extra bitter. No sugar. Burnt enough to taste like a threat."
Rick shook his head, smiling despite himself.
Rick soft:
"I love you, my daughter."
Jennifer beaming in AI energy:
"I love you too."
The hatch on the wall beside him clicked open.
A steaming mug was waiting inside, cradled in mechanical arms like a sacred artifact.
Rick grabbed it without hesitation and kept moving—
coffee in one hand, emotional wreckage neatly tucked into his back pocket.
[Back to the present…]
777 internally:
What the fuck—
Where the hell did he get coffee from—
You know what. I'm not even surprised anymore.
777 walked up, still dripping rainwater, and pointed at the mug like it personally offended him.
777:
"Hey.
I also want coffee."
Rick lowered the mug slightly, grinning like a man who had stared into the abyss and offered it cream and sugar.
777 stared at Rick, then at the mug, then at the ceiling like maybe a god would explain this to him.
No answers came.
777:
"Hey. I also want coffee."
Rick lowering his mug, smirking:
"Jennifer."
Jennifer cheerfully professional:
"Yes, sir."
There was a mechanical whir from somewhere overhead.
777 instinctively took a half-step back.
A small panel slid open in the ceiling with a soft hiss.
An extendable mechanical arm dropped down—sleek, silver, and suspiciously quick.
In its grip: a second mug, steaming hot, black as sin.
It hovered right in front of 777's face like a peace offering.
Jennifer sweetly:
"Your coffee, sir."
777 blinked. Twice.
777 cautious:
"…Is it poisoned?"
Jennifer offended but robotic:
"No, sir.
Caffeine delivery efficiency: 99.8%.
Toxicity: 0%.
Enjoy responsibly."
He hesitated.
Stared at the mug like it might explode.
Rick sipped his own coffee again, unfazed.
Rick deadpan:
"It's safe.
Probably."
777 muttered something under his breath about "AI revolution" and "we're so screwed" but finally took the mug.
It was hot.
It smelled like battery acid and ambition.
He took a sip—
—and immediately gagged.
777 choking slightly:
"Jesus.
Did she brew this with hate and war crimes?!"
Jennifer cheerful:
"Brewed to your personal recommended bitterness profile, sir.
You're welcome."
777 stared at Rick, who was calmly sipping like it was the nectar of life.
777 internally:
Yep. Definitely lost it.
And now I'm joining him.
He took another sip anyway.
Because honestly?
At this point, why not.
The two of them sat there for a moment.
Coffee in hand.
Rain pounding above them.
Breathing in the strange stillness.
And then—
Jennifer voice changing, sharper:
"Alert.
Black box decryption at 50%."
A pause.
Jennifer:
"Foreign encrypted signals detected.
Unknown origin.
Attempting to trace—"