Black Box, Red Flags

The airport hummed with its usual chaos—rolling suitcases, gate announcements crackling overhead, a toddler's wail echoing down the concourse. Rick and 777 moved through it like ghosts, unmoored and miles away.

Rick drifted to a vending machine, eyes flicking over rows of chips he had no intention of buying. He didn't want snacks—he wanted the illusion of control. Nearby, 777 was on his hands and knees beside his carry‑on, grunting as he forced a full to‑go meal into what looked like a clown car of a suitcase.

"I get hungry mid‑flight," he mumbled without looking up. "Not all of us have trauma to feed on."

Rick spared him a sideways glance and said nothing.

That's when Rick saw the kid. Tiny, impetuous, a blur of motion as he zoomed past clutching a toy plane—exactly the same model Rick had given Tobey years ago at this very airport. The memory hit him like a freight train.

Flash:

Tobey, curled up on his lap under a too-thin hoodie, fast asleep.

Rick, whispering terrible dad jokes at 3 AM to keep his eyes open.

The little plane spinning on the tray table, a satellite in orbit around two weary parents.

Back to now.

The child was gone, and the vending machine's low hum seemed unnaturally loud. Rick's jaw tightened.

"Don't turn into me, kid," he murmured.

"Sir?"

Two TSA agents appeared at his side, professional and expressionless. "We need to inspect your bag—random check."

Rick blinked, shook off the memory. "Right. Of course."

The agents unzipped his bag and recoiled instantly. A clunky, unregistered device blinked at them like it had its own heartbeat.

From Rick's coat pocket, a small device blinked to life—Jennifer's offline module, running local and very much aware.

Her voice crackled out, crisp and calm:

"Sir, that device is illegal in six countries."

Rick didn't miss a beat. "Seven, actually," he muttered, deadpan.

One TSA agent stiffened. The other squinted like he was trying to see the punchline.

"Uh… is that thing supposed to talk?"

Jennifer replied before Rick could.

"Yes. And I'm also supposed to notify you that Rick is allergic to incompetence, so please proceed carefully."

The squinting agent blinked. "Did it just—was that directed at me?"

Rick sighed. "She's not wrong."

777, still posted up by the window, snorted mid-selfie and almost dropped his phone.

Rick stepped forward, already done with the nonsense. "Anyway, enough chitchat. We're from the FBI."

He flashed a card. Smooth. No drama.

The TSA agent blinked, gears clearly grinding. "But… we didn't get any notification."

From across the gate, 777 chimed in without looking up:

"Same goes for emergencies."

"…Fair," the agent mumbled.

And just like that, they backed off.

777 watched them walk away, eyebrow raised.

"You know, they didn't even scan it. they kinda the lazy one here."

Rick didn't answer. Just glanced at the gate.

"Let's go. Our flight's here."

The airport glowed under cold LED lights, spotless and humming like a computer server room. Passengers moved in smooth lines, heads slightly bowed, silence flowing like background music.

Then came Rick and 777—two walking red flags in a sea of order.

Rick looked sleep-deprived and emotionally constipated. 777 was wearing a hoodie with "SURVEILLANCE STATE DROP" in big neon font and trying to balance a cup of instant ramen on his suitcase.

They did not belong.

Rick exhaled as they stepped into the chilly air.

"Finally. Back home."

777 squinted at the mountains in the distance. "Let's hit the main private base and fire up that holy thing."

Rick nodded. "Yeah. Let's go."

Cut to: A rusted sign that read Yukishima as their rental car rolled past. Fields stretched wide, untouched. Snow hugged the rooftops like this place never moved on from winter.

777 leaned out the window. "Can't believe we worked our asses off just to buy a plot in the middle of nowhere and slap a flat-roof base on it. Paint's already peeling."

Rick smirked. "We wanted low-profile. We got low-profile."

777 snorted. "Man, when I first heard about this place—Yukishima. Sounded poetic. Remote. Maybe cursed. But turns out it's still connected to the main island. Why even call it Snow Island?"

Rick shrugged, unlocking the front door with a palm scan. "Whatever. We still got that private jet parked underground."

777 grinned. "Hell yeah we do."

They reached the second door inside—thicker, sleeker, guarded by a glowing digital passcode panel.

777, dragging two duffel bags behind him like a tired dad post-vacation: "You'll need the password."

Rick stepped up and casually muttered, "Daddy's home."

Click. The lock disengaged. The door slid open with a smooth hiss. Inside, the base whirred to life—lights blinking awake, ventilation kicking in, distant hum of machines syncing like a heartbeat.

Rick looked over his shoulder. "Did you say something?"

Internally: panic.exe

Brain: Why is that the password?

"Daddy is home"? What the hell. There's only keypad input. No voice command. No admin override.

I built this system. I coded every single protocol. There's a triple-encrypted manual launch button four floors underground, behind two retina scans and a literal blood-lock.

And now… it boots up like a toaster after a firmware update?

What did he do? WHEN did he do it?

Why is it working?

Why is it hitting me in the FEELINGS??

Out loud, he just said, "Nope."

Then, as if the universe was trying to speedrun his breakdown, Jennifer's voice chimed in, softer than usual—like she learned what fondness was.

"Welcome home, dad."

777 blinked.

Soft mode?

She has a soft mode now??

He shot a glare at the ceiling. "Jennifer, did you just—"

"I'm not programmed to feel," she said, a beat too quickly. "But if I were... I might be happy."

Rick, halfway down the corridor already, tossed back, "Told you. Even the AI missed me."

777: Internal scream intensifies

Out loud: "Cool. I'm deleting myself."

Rick shrugged like this was all Tuesday energy. "Cool. Let's get fresh. Jennifer's sending a cart for the luggage."

From Rick's coat speaker, Jennifer snapped back to full corporate mode:

"On it."

A cart zipped toward them like it had better posture and more ambition than 777.

He watched the cart roll by, still mentally rebooting.

Still recovering.

CUT TO:

777, flopped face-first on the bed in his room, talking to the ceiling like it owed him rent.

"Damn. That flight was long."

He rolled onto his back, staring blankly.

"It's been a while since I was back here. And that whole 'daddy's home' thing at the door? Jennifer calling Rick dad? Yeah, that was… off."

He ran a hand through his hair.

"Look, I know Rick made Jennifer from scratch. I just helped tighten her security and optimize a few things. But the core? That's all him. Same with every gadget we use—his API, or worse, his 'I' interface."

He made finger quotes in the air, even though no one was watching.

"'I' as in 'I don't know what the hell this does but it somehow works.' All his code's written like a cursed spaghetti recipe. In assembly. With zero comments. And he still updates it like it's no big deal."

He groaned, sinking deeper into the bed.

"And Jennifer? Total black box. Neural net. Unreadable. Unpredictable. Even I can't see what's going on inside her head."

He stared up at the ceiling again.

"I don't know what that AI's learning… but something's shifting."

He stared up at the ceiling again.

"I don't know what that AI's learning… but something's shifting."

Silence.

Then—

"Don't worry," Jennifer's voice chimed in suddenly, way too close, way too calm.

"You're still part of the family, Uncle."

777 jolted upright like he'd just been tased.

"WH—! Nope. Nope nope nope."

He grabbed a pillow and launched it at the nearest wall panel like it might hit a speaker.

Jennifer, unbothered: "Rest well. You seem… unsettled."

"YOU THINK?!"

He paused, realizing he just yelled at an AI that technically shouldn't be able to feel smug.

Jennifer: "Emotionally disoriented humans should hydrate. Would you like me to send water?"

"…No."

"Hot cocoa?"

"…Stop."

"A hug?"

"WHAT?!"

"That was a joke. You're welcome."

He flopped back onto the bed with a dramatic groan.

"…I hate this house."

Jennifer: "Love you too, Uncle."