Chapter 2 Max's breath caught as the bathroom door swung shut behind him, the room suddenly shrinking with the echo of his own mistake. He had hoped to slip in and out unnoticed, a quick stop before the morning rush to breakfast. But life at the academy was never that simple, not for someone like him—only a month in residence and already marked by bullies. His stomach churned, rebellion flaring up as he heard the familiar thud of boots outside, and the low murmur of voices that spelled trouble. Six seconds—that's all it took for Max to realize the trap he'd walked into. The door swung open again, admitting Buck and his cronies, their shadows stretching across the tiled floor like ominous omens. "Look who we got here," one of Buck's entourage sneered, as two of them took up positions by the door, their broad backs forming an impenetrable barrier. Max's heart raced, his mind scrambling for calculations and escape routes, but the numbers didn't add up to anything hopeful this time. He feigned nonchalance, leaning back against the cool metal of a sink, trying to look anywhere but at the approaching menace. Buck, with his stocky build and a grin that held no warmth, sauntered closer. "Well, well, if it isn't the math hyper-thought freak," he taunted, his fingers dancing through the air with mockery as if hyper-thought was some kind of magic. His voice dripped with scorn for what he couldn't understand—the gift that set Max apart, the intellect that soared beyond arithmetic and algebra. Max squared his shoulders, then pushed off from the sink and tried to dodge past the looming figure, but it was like trying to outmaneuver a tank with sheer will. Buck's hand shot out, fast and unyielding, shoving Max back until his spine met the wall with a thud. Pinned, Max could feel the cold unyielding tiles against his skin. "Got something to say, genius?" Buck's words were a hiss, his presence an overbearing shadow that threatened to snuff out the light of any potential retort Max might muster. In that cramped corner of the academy's boys' bathroom, the air thick with the stench of antiseptic and fear, Max stood motionless, eyes narrowed, his jaw setting in defiance. He might have been smaller, less physically imposing than his antagonist, but his mind raced, calculating odds, angles, and the possibility of turning the tables somehow. The tension in the air crackled like static, an invisible current charging the moment as Buck's arm raised, knuckles whitening. The fist, drawn back like the string of a bow waiting to unleash its arrow, hovered mere inches from Max's face. His heart hammered against his ribs, each beat a drumroll to the impending strike, but he wouldn't show fear, he wouldn't give them that satisfaction. Fate intervened in the form of the bathroom door silently easing open—and Brock stepping inside. His presence was an immediate balm to the electric fear sparking through Max. Brock, also a new arrival at the Academy, but big for his age, and with shoulders that had seen him victorious on the sports field many times back home. Brock strode across the room with an air that spoke volumes without uttering a single syllable. Ignoring the still tableau before him, Brock proceeded with the nonchalance of routine. The simple mundane act of using the urinal in silence only increased his ominous presence. Water ran in the sink as he washed his hands after, the sound of it a soothing counterpoint to the stifled breaths of the bullies. Brock dried his hands casually on the provided towel, then approached the exit, where the two accomplices parted like the Red Sea for Moses, their eyes betraying uncertainty. The door handle clicked, but instead of leaving, Brock paused and pivoted, delivering a simple invitation laced with latent power. "Hey, Max, it's time for breakfast, are you coming?" His tone was casual, friendly even, but there was something in his gaze—a flash of steel—that riveted Buck's attention. A smile unfurled across Brock's lips, as warm as the morning sun yet carrying a silent warning that radiated from his core. In that moment, Buck's resolve crumbled like a cliffside worn by relentless waves. He released Max, who wasted no breath as he darted toward the sanctuary that Brock's proximity promised. Together, they exited, leaving behind the echoes of what could have been and stepping into the promise of a day unmarred by fists and fury. The artificial light filtering through the corridors of the academy seemed to bathe everything in a soft, forgiving glow. Yet for Max, the world felt sharp-edged and dangerous. He matched Brock's stride with shorter, more urgent steps, trying to shake off the lingering fear that clung like cobwebs. They moved through the halls — a silent duo wrapped in their own thoughts. The occasional cadet hustled by, oblivious to the storm that had almost broken in the sanctuary of the boys bathroom. Finally, it was Brock who broke their mutual silence with a weighty truth, his voice low but clear. "I can't always be there." Max's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed the tightness in his throat. It took him a moment to find his voice, a quiet acknowledgment of both gratitude and understanding. "I know, but thanks for this time, I thought he was going to pound me." The larger boy offered a nod, neither dismissive nor overbearing, just a simple gesture that carried the weight of camaraderie forged under pressure—a silent pact between defender and protected as they continued their walk toward the mess hall. Max's gaze lingered on the blue and gold walls of the corridor, tracing the surface that seemed to stretch endlessly before him. He felt Brock's presence—a solid, reassuring reality at his side. "Look," Brock began, his voice carrying a new edge, "you need to learn to stand up for yourself." The words hit Max like the echo of a distant explosion, resonating deep within his chest. He turned to look up at Brock, feeling the disparity in their sizes more acutely than ever. Shadows played across Brock's determined face, highlighting the strong jawline and the set of his mouth—a mouth that spoke uncomfortable truths. "He's bigger than me," Max replied, his voice strained as he grappled with the simple fact. His own slender frame seemed to shrink in comparison to the memory of Buck's looming figure. The air around them hummed with the unspoken acknowledgement of Max's disadvantage. Brock's eyes held a glimmer of understanding, but it was overshadowed by an unwavering resolve. It was clear to Max that his protector saw more than just the physical disparity—he saw potential, a spark waiting to be ignited. Max felt a shiver of unease, knowing that Brock's protection came with expectations; expectations that he would one day have to meet alone. Max's boots squeaked softly against the polished floor, a rhythmic accompaniment to the rapid drumming of his own heartbeat. He could still feel the sting of the wall's cold surface on his back, the pressure of Buck's fingers digging into his arm—a ghostly sensation that lingered like an unwanted afterimage. Brock's gait was steady and sure, his broad shoulders cutting through the academy's morning murmurs and the distant clatter of breakfast trays. Max trailed in his wake, grappling with the residue of fear and the tentative relief that Brock's intervention had brought. "Hey," Brock said suddenly, slowing his stride so that Max could catch up. "There's something I've been meaning to mention." Max lifted his gaze, meeting Brock's eyes. They held a hint of camaraderie, an unspoken pact forged in the silent stand-off moments ago. "There's a martial arts class I'm in," Brock continued, his voice casual but intentional. "It's not just for Marine Cadets. How about you come as my guest?" The invitation hovered between them, an unexpected lifeline tossed into the tumultuous sea of Max's thoughts. His mind flashed through a series of quick calculations—the odds of success, the probability of failure, and the potential trajectories of this new variable in his carefully ordered world. "I don't know," Max replied after a fractional hesitation, his words edged with uncertainty. The corridors of possibility seemed to narrow at the prospect, compressing around him with the weight of a thousand unseen outcomes. Brock's expression didn't falter; it was as if he had anticipated the reluctance, understood the calculus of risk that played out behind Max's wary eyes. There was a patience there, an assurance that spoke to something deeper than the mere offering of a class. Max felt the tug of decision, the pull of an opportunity that might alter the course of his academy life—one that could shift the balance of power in a world where brawn and brains collided with often unforgiving force. Brock's invitation wasn't just about learning to fight; it was an offer to learn how to stand in the face of fear, to transform weakness into strength. And beneath it all, the real question lingered, unvoiced but palpable: If not now, when? Max's fingers involuntarily traced the stitch on his sleeve—a nervous habit that surfaced whenever uncertainty gnawed at him. "You'll be fine," Brock said, his voice steady and imbued with a confidence that seemed to stretch beyond the bounds of the academy's structure. "I promise you, there are no bullies in the class. The class is after dinner, eat light, we have a pretty rough workout." "I have to study," Max countered, and even to his own ears, the words sounded feeble—less a statement of intent, more an excuse to cling to the familiar shores of academia. He knew his relentless pursuit of knowledge was both armor and anchor, shielding him from failure in one realm while potentially dragging him under in another. But as they walked, Max couldn't ignore the warmth that seeped into his chest, a flicker of gratitude towards Brock for extending this branch of camaraderie. Max had found an unlikely ally—a protector offering a path to self-reliance. The paradox wasn’t lost on him; he needed Brock's strength now to build his own. Ahead, the smell of the mess hall began to permeate the corridor, mingling with the antiseptic tang that hung perpetually in the air. Max’s stomach churned, not with hunger, but with the realization that every step took him closer to a choice that might redefine him. "Seriously, Max," Brock said, shaking his head with mirth. "You're already smarter in math than your teachers. You need exercise more than you need more long-division." "I don't study long-division," Max retorted. "I could do that when I was four years old." Brock raised a brow. "When I was four, I was eating glue." "Okay, I'll try the class." Max's voice had a hint of surrender but also curiosity. It was an admission that perhaps there were things that numbers couldn't teach. "Look at it this way," Brock said, the cadence of his voice steady and reassuring amidst the echoes of their footsteps. "You're good with numbers, right? Think of martial arts as a physical puzzle. You need to find the right moves that fit together." "Physical puzzle, huh?" Max mused, the concept intriguing enough to distract him from his earlier fear. It was an angle he hadn't considered, and the analytical part of his brain latched onto it like a lifeline. "There we go, it'll be fun. I need a sparring partner," Brock chimed in, a playful grin tugging at the edges of his mouth. Max couldn’t help but let out a nervous chuckle. "Oh great, so you're going to pound me instead of Buck," he quipped, the words laced with a self-deprecating humor that had become his shield. "Hey," Brock shot back, an easy confidence radiating from him, "I'm not about just throwing punches. There's technique, control, discipline. That's what I want to show you." "Discipline," Max repeated, rolling the word around in his mind like one of the complex equations he loved to solve. It wasn’t an unfamiliar concept, but applying it outside of academics was uncharted territory. Could he adapt his mental acumen to his physical movements? Was there a formula that would translate his cerebral strength into a corporeal one? Brock's hand landed firmly yet amicably on Max's back, the vibrations of his chuckle reverberating through the gesture. "I'll go easy on you," he promised, his voice light and teasing, but underneath lay an unspoken pact of camaraderie. 9 years later... The present came rushing back with the abruptness of a spacecraft breaching the atmosphere. Max was reading a book, his eyes tracing the lines of text and equations, absorbing complex theories that seemed as natural to him as breathing. The tranquility of his hyper-focused state, however, was shattered by an intrusive scent—a pungent waft that curled its way from the bathroom and snaked around his senses. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he leaned away from the atmospheric assault. "Ugh, Brock! What in the cosmos...?" Max gasped, half-rising from his chair as if distancing himself from the stench could somehow spare him from its full force. The door swung open, and Brock emerged, his broad frame almost filling the doorway. "Sorry, buddy," he said with a grimace of apology, rubbing the back of his neck as if he could physically scrub away the embarrassment. "Those long-range rations always do that to me." "Clearly, they're plotting a mutiny against your digestive system," Max quipped, despite the lingering offense to his olfactory senses. His tone, though edged with humor, couldn't mask the genuine concern for his friend's health—or the spacecraft's air quality. Brock chuckled, the sound echoing in the small compartment, and ambled over to join Max at the table. His easygoing nature never faltered, even in the aftermath of his biological warfare. It was this same unflappable demeanor that had stood like a bulwark against bullies all those years ago and now made light of a little post-bathroom embarrassment. "Those rations aren't fit for human consumption," Max continued, trying to fan the air discreetly with his book. "Next time, maybe choose the lesser of two evils and opt for starvation?" "Starvation doesn't have quite the same kick," Brock replied, the twinkle in his eye evident even amid the noxious cloud. Gritting his teeth against the lingering stench, Max reached for his flight helmet and jammed it onto his head, as if the thick padding would act as a barrier between him and the olfactory assault. "I'm telling you, Brock, something died inside you," he said through the filtered air, his voice muffled but the disgust unmistakable. Brock let out a hearty laugh, the sound rich with amusement and free from any hint of offense. He was used to ribbing; it was the foundation of their friendship, a dynamic that had only strengthened since their days at the academy. With an exaggerated shrug, he settled into his chair across from Max, ready to pass the time in the most tried-and-true fashion known to spacefarers: playing cards. As the small cargo ship plodded on, dragging the immense asteroid behind it like a reluctant dance partner, the two friends lost themselves in the game, laying down cards with practiced ease. The rhythmic beeps and chirps of the various computer equipment punctuated the silence, a comfortable backdrop to their quiet concentration. But soon, another sound intruded—a persistent buzzing that seemed to emanate from every corner of the compartment. Max's brows drew together in annoyance as the noise grated on his nerves, disrupting the flow of the game. "What's wrong with the intercom?" Max asked, glancing up from his hand. His mind, ever analytical, shifted gears from calculating odds to diagnosing the problem, the same way it had effortlessly navigated complex mathematical puzzles years before. The buzzing persisted, a mechanical fly that refused to be swatted away. Brock looked toward the console, his expression unreadable. Max could see the gears turning in his friend's head as well, albeit in a more tangible, hands-on manner, reflective of Brock's approach to problems—direct and immediate. "Intercom's got its wires crossed or something," Brock muttered, reaching over to tap the console, as though physical persuasion might coax it back to normalcy. Max watched for a moment, the helmet now resting in his lap, the scent mercifully fading. The intercom continued its incessant droning, a stark contrast to the comforting silence of space just beyond their metal confines. It was a puzzle, another challenge, and Max felt the familiar thrill of a problem waiting to be solved. He tapped his fingers on the metal table, his gaze shifting to the intercom. Brock's hands moved deftly over the console, flipping switches with a practiced hand, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I don't know, I've checked everything," Brock replied after a moment, his voice tinged with frustration. "I can't find anything wrong." Max leaned back, allowing his analytical mind to take over as he honed in on the sound that had become their unwanted companion. The buzzing seemed to pulse, an irregular rhythm that nagged at the edge of his consciousness. He tilted his head, attempting to isolate the pattern from the hum of the ship's engines and the occasional clink of playing cards on the table. "It sounds like the buzzing sound is a repetitive pattern," Max murmured, more to himself than to Brock. With that realization dawning, he recognized the need for a deeper analysis—one that went beyond ordinary human perception. Closing his eyes, Max surrendered to the hyper-thought state, his mind expanding and accelerating at an astonishing pace. The world around him faded, leaving only the infrastructure of thought, the abstract space where time and insight were malleable. In what felt like less than a heartbeat yet stretched into an expanse of cognitive exploration, Max pieced together the disjointed noise. His eyes snapped open, wide with the shock of understanding. "It's a tracking beacon," he said, his voice cutting through the stale air of the compartment with the weight of certainty. Brock's brow furrowed, skepticism written across his rugged features as he peered at Max. The idea of hyper-thought, though not alien to him, still seemed like a concept plucked from the stories they'd tell each other late at night. "You got that from hyper-thought?" he asked, the question laced with both doubt and awe. Max nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His chest still heaved slightly from the rush of mental exertion, the intense journey through a landscape where thoughts were tangible and time was a river he could navigate upstream. "Four seconds in hyper-thought is like an eternity," he explained. His fingers drummed on the table, a staccato beat mirroring the pace of his accelerated cognition. "I was able to slow the signal down and hear it proper. I think there's a tracking device somewhere." The gravity of the situation hung between them, an invisible weight that pulled at the edges of their camaraderie. Max's revelation transcended their card game banter and plunged them into the murky depths of interstellar espionage—a domain where Max's gift for hyper-thought was more than just a party trick; it was their lifeline. Brock's declaration cut through the stale air of the compartment, a decisive slash that mirrored his no-nonsense approach to problems. "It's not coming from us, or our escort ship," he stated firmly, his hands already moving towards the locker that housed his spacesuit. His voice carried a stoic resolve, the kind honed by years of facing down challenges head-on. Max watched as Brock pulled on the suit with practiced ease, the bulky fabric conforming to his powerful shoulders like a second skin. The hiss of seals locking into place was a familiar sound, one that always preceded a venture into the vast unknown just beyond their metal enclosure. The heavy clunk of magnetic boots signaled Brock's departure, each step a dull thud against the cargo ship's metallic hull. Max felt a twinge of concern watching him disappear through the airlock, the portal snapping shut with an ominous finality. Outside, Brock moved with purpose, his silhouette a stark contrast against the jagged terrain of the asteroid. He navigated the uneven surface, his eyes sharp and searching beneath the visor's reflective glare. The silence of space was absolute, the only company his own breath echoing inside the helmet—a steady rhythm amidst the ocean of stars. And then he saw it: a small, anomalous shadow wedged into a crevice. Brock crouched, his fingers finding purchase on the edges of the not so alien device. It looked innocuous enough, but the implications were anything but; a tracking beacon, hammered deep into the rock, its presence an unwelcome sign of others laying claim to what they had found. He left the tracking device in place, removing it could tip off whomever had placed it here. "Lieutenant," he reported upon reentry, peeling off his helmet to reveal a face etched with concern. "It was a tracking device, pounded into the asteroid." Max knew that Brock reverting to using rank showed how serious he considered the situation. Max's mind absorbed the news, his mind already racing with the possibilities, the potential threats, and the burden of their next move. "Well, this is our rock now," Max declared, his voice resolute and tinged with defiance. "We're not giving it back." Max reached over and activated the Com-link to their escort fighter. "Tom, you there?" asked Max. "I'm here, what's up?" replied the pilot of the fighter ship. "We found another colony ship's tracking device on the asteroid, but let's not do anything that might startle them if they have visual on us." "Good call, we still have two weeks before we can warn Destiny. Passive scanning only, and no transmissions that could tip off the enemy." The next two weeks were filled with uneasy tension as they stayed glued to the scanners, watching for any sign of enemy fighters approaching. The cargo ship's thrusters sputtered briefly as they approached Destiny, coughing out the last of their fuel as Max nudged the control stick with practiced precision. Sweat beaded on his forehead, a silent testament to the tension that filled the cockpit. The Destiny loomed before them—a hulking silhouette against the backdrop of star-strewn infinity—as they approached its gaping collection nets. "Almost there," Brock murmured, his voice steady but his hands gripping the armrests. "Almost," Max repeated, his focus unwavering. His fingers danced over the controls, coaxing every last ounce of power from the engines. With a final, gentle shudder, the asteroid slipped free from their grasp, ensnared by the Destiny's magnetic nets like a cosmic butterfly caught mid-flight. A collective sigh of relief escaped both men as the tension in the cabin dissipated. "Nice flying," Brock said, clapping Max on the shoulder. "Thanks." Max allowed himself a small smile, but it faded quickly as he lined up the docking procedure. "Let's get her landed before we start celebrating." Their approach was precise, a ballet of technology and nerves. Max's eyes flicked between the fuel gauge and the approaching bay doors, the numbers dwindling perilously close to empty. As the ship touched down with a soft thud, the ground crew swarmed around them, securing the vessel with expert haste. "Let's hurry to the debriefing, we need to tell the Captain what we found," Max replied, standing to join him. As they neared the debriefing room, Brock's pace slowed, his gaze drawn to a figure crouched over an oily sheen spread across the metal floor. The man worked methodically, scrubbing at the dark stain with a rag that had seen better days. He wore a drab sanitation uniform, the fabric hanging off him in a way that spoke of loss—of rank, of respect. Brock's nudge was gentle, almost hesitant. Max followed his friend’s line of sight to the sanitation worker, recognition dawning in his eyes as he took in the familiar set of shoulders, the once defiant tilt of the head now bowed in menial labor. "It's Buck," Max whispered, more to himself than to Brock. "He must have finally stepped over the line," Brock remarked, though there was no malice in his voice, only a hint of regret. Max watched the man he once knew, remembered the fear and pain he had caused, but also the potential squandered. "He did it to himself," Max said softly, echoing Brock's earlier sentiment. His gaze lingered a moment longer before he turned away. "It's a shame, he could have been a great pilot." With that, they left the echo of what could have been behind them and continued on their way. The past, with its bullies and battles, remained a shadow—a lesson learned, a chapter closed—as they moved forward to face whatever the future held in the vastness of space.