Chapter 9 The Destiny Colony Ship Five months before Graduation Brock's boots were planted firmly on the metal grate of the landing bay, his spine ramrod straight as he held himself at attention among the ranks of the 3rd Marine Company. The patch on his sleeve, a vibrant insignia against the matte gray fabric, marked him as a Cadet Marine. Yet, today, that distinction seemed to dissolve in the gravity of their mission; he was a Marine through and through. His fingers curled around the cold butt of his rifle, the weight of real ammunition heavy against his shoulder. His pack pressed into his back, laden with the essentials of combat, while stun grenades dangled from his vest—a tangible reminder of the lethality strapped to his body. The air was thick with tension and silent anticipation as he stood flanked by the formidable presence of the other companies of the Destiny’s Marine Division. Their collective gaze fixed forward, a sea of uniforms in unanimous readiness. The usual hum of the landing bay doors stood conspicuously absent, the vast panels remaining sealed shut—an ominous sign that the battle ahead would be waged within rather than the expanse beyond. A Master Gunnery Sergeant, a living embodiment of discipline and experience, moved through the formation like an unyielding current. His eyes missed nothing, a meticulous inspector ensuring each Marine was prepared for the imminent clash. When he reached Brock, his scrutiny was no less intense despite the cadet status. Brock didn't flinch under the gaze; his equipment was impeccable, his resolve steeled. In the periphery of his vision, the Fleet Cadets filed into the bay, their arrival marked by the sharp contrast of blue against the monochromatic backdrop of Marine grays. Brock's eyes darted amongst them, searching for Max's familiar frame. But it was futile; the Fleet Cadets melded into a singular entity, indistinguishable individuals in the unity of their purpose. A twinge of concern knotted in Brock's gut—today, they would face separate fates. Brock's focus snapped back to the immediate reality as the Master Gunnery Sergeant gave a curt nod of approval after examining his gear, then continued down the line. Brock exhaled slowly, allowing the faintest tremor of nerves to slip away with the breath. He was ready. They all were—for Destiny, for whatever awaited within the steel belly of the ship, and for the orders that would soon propel them into the unknown turmoil churning inside those closed bay doors. Brock's gaze flicked back to the Fleet Cadets. He watched as they broke formation, their officers directing them with brisk efficiency into smaller contingents. Max, somewhere among them, would be flying in the 2nd navigator's seat aboard one of the armored troop carriers. Brock's mind raced, replaying the shrill alarm that had shattered the night's tranquility. It had been a historic sound, one that resonated with the urgency of untold consequences, compelling them toward this precipice of action. Destiny was at a tipping point, its very structure threatened by the defiant stand of one northern town. The Captain's authority, unchallenged for so long, now faced the ultimate test. The labor movement's refusal to operate within the established hierarchy had escalated beyond mere dissent. Their audacious declaration of independence had not merely defied the Supreme Commander—it had lit the fuse of rebellion. Fleet Command's response was immediate, inevitable. Brock understood the gravity of their mission: a demonstration of might to quell the uprising and serve as a cautionary tale to all. The townspeople, their fates sealed, would serve as a stark reminder that the will of the Captain was absolute. To Brock, the silent sentinel within, the unfolding scenario was as clear, they were the enforcers of order on Destiny, and today, their presence would be felt in every corner of the ship—unyielding and omnipresent. Brock's heart thudded in his chest, an unsteady drumbeat that seemed to resonate with the heavy clunk of boots and the soft rustle of combat gear. A mechanical voice crackled over the intercom, automated and emotionless, “Begin loading procedures.” In an instant, the formation sprang to life, columns of two materializing from the mass of gray-clad figures as they moved with purposeful strides towards their carriers. Brock felt the ground beneath him vibrate with the weight of their collective resolve. His boots thumped against the metallic ramp of his troop carrier, the sound echoing in his ears like the tolling of some great bell marking the passage of his cadetship into grim reality. Settling into the hard seat beside an older Marine whose face was etched with the lines of countless missions, Brock gripped the edge of his bench. This wasn't the familiar thrill of a training simulation—this was real, the weight of the loaded rifle a testament to the danger they were about to face. Today could end in a massacre, he thought, the phrase repeating in his mind like a dark mantra. Ten thousand Marines against a smattering of rebels; it was overkill in every sense, yet necessary to demonstrate the iron will of Fleet Command. The older Marine caught the flicker of uncertainty in Brock's eyes, his own gaze holding the steady calm of experience. "You'll be fine, boy," he grunted, a note of reassurance threading through his gravelly voice. "Give them a chance to be taken into custody, but if someone raises a rifle at you, do what you have to do." Brock nodded mutely, the gravity of his potential actions settling onto his shoulders like a mantle. His hand brushed against the cold metal of his rifle, a silent vow to uphold his duty, whatever the cost. "For Destiny," Brock murmured, the words escaping him more as a plea than a battle cry. The Sergeant's chuckle rumbled through the tense atmosphere, a fleeting moment of camaraderie in the face of what lay ahead. "Ah, to be young and still find comfort in those two words. Yes, boy, for Destiny." A sharp jolt signaled the carrier's departure, and Brock fixed his gaze forward, knowing that the next time the ramp lowered, it would reveal the stark reality of their mission—a reality in which he would play his part, for better or worse, in the unfolding history of the Destiny. The dull hum of the troop carrier's engines had become a lullaby to the weary Marines, its monotonous drone coaxing even the most anxious among them into a half-sleep. Bodies swayed gently with the inertia of flight, heads bobbing in sync with the slight turbulence that rocked the metal beast ferrying them to an uncertain fate. Brock, his heart a leaden weight in his chest, feigned sleep like the others, eyes closed but mind relentlessly awake, playing over possible outcomes. "Marines, on your feet and ready up!" The Platoon Leader's voice cut through the haze of feigned slumber, sharp and commanding. Instantly, the cabin burst into a flurry of activity. Helmets were secured, vests tightened. Brock checked the fastenings on his own gear before offering a cursory glance to the Marine beside him. The older Marine gave him a curt nod, his face an unreadable mask of stoicism. The descent was a silent plummet, reminding them of the gravity of their mission. As the carrier touched down, the sudden change in pressure popped their ears, the cold rush of air slapping their faces back to complete alertness. Brock felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as he followed the tide of Marines pouring from the ramp. The world outside was starkly different from the one they had been briefed on. The benign skies belied the turmoil they'd expected. Brock's boots hit the pavement, and he sprinted to his post, an intersection that seemed too quiet for a battleground. He stood there, rifle at the ready, scanning windows for signs of life. Brock found himself in a small town located in the Southern Hemisphere, far from the battle, though, occasionally, the flutter of a curtain or a furtive shadow betrayed a citizen's curiosity, but none dared to step outside. He looked up at the Northern Hemisphere, from this distance, the rebellion was just a whisper of unrest, yet the distant echo of gunfire broke the silence—a grim reminder of the conflict unfolding elsewhere. And then, an eruption of light and noise painted the horizon; explosions bloomed against the sky in the far-off Northern Hemisphere. They flared brilliantly and then were snuffed out just as quickly, leaving only silence to drift on the wind. Brock watched, knowing that somewhere beyond his line of sight, the might of Fleet Command was being demonstrated in full force. With practiced precision, Marine engineers set about transforming the desolate intersection he was assigned to guard into a fortified outpost. Like ants methodically building a hill, they hoisted tents into place, their tan canvases snapping in the breeze. Brock watched as barricades were erected, their interlocking pieces forming a wall of steel and sandbags around them, projecting an aura of impenetrable resolve. The air filled with the clanging of metal and commands barked between squad members. Brock, standing as a silent sentinel, felt the weight of his rifle and the burden of his duty grow heavier with each passing hour. The once mundane intersection now took on the stark appearance of a military encampment, bristling with readiness yet devoid of conflict. As the sun lamps above rotated to the Northern Hemisphere, the air chilled and the scent of cooking drifted towards him. Marine cooks, their sleeves rolled up against the evening cool, stirred massive pots and doled out chow to the troops. Brock accepted his rations, the food simple but nourishing, a small comfort in the face of uncertainty. Days melded together, marked only by the routine patrols and the regular meals. He remained vigilant at his post alongside his fellow Marines, each one a silent bastion of the Fleet's dominance. Citizen’s faces appeared and vanished behind the windows of nearby homes, eyes wide with apprehension, yet none dared challenge the display of martial law laid bare before them. The intersection became Brock’s world, a microcosm where time seemed suspended. He pondered the lives hidden beyond the windows, the thoughts occupying the minds behind those curtains that twitched but never opened. On the fifth day, with the first light of dawn painting the sky with streaks of pink and gold, the troop carrier returned. Its arrival was both an intrusion and a release; the rumble of engines shattered the silence that had settled over the small town like a shroud. "Pack it up," came the crisp command, echoing through the streets. Marines dismantled the temporary fortress with the same efficiency with which it had been created, folding tents and stacking barricades with the rhythm of a well-oiled machine. Brock's hands worked automatically, though his mind lingered on the days spent in the shadow of obedience. As the troop carrier lifted off, bearing them away from the intersection that had been their charge, Brock caught a final glimpse of the shuttered windows and locked doors. A profound stillness hung over the town—a testament to the lesson imparted without a single shot fired in its streets. The Fleet was in control, and the Captain’s word was law. In the weeks that followed, the echoes of defiance dissipated like mist in the morning sun. Life resumed its familiar cadence, the normalcy of daily routines gradually stitching the fabric of society back together. But for Brock and those who had stood as silent sentinels in towns all across Destiny, the quiet demonstration of power would not be easily forgotten. The Aurora Colony Ship 4 years later, real time… 2,800 years, cryo time… Brock's gloved hand swept across the console of Max's shuttle, a futile search among the dormant screens and inactive buttons. Dust motes swirled in the air, disturbed by his presence, glittering briefly in the shafts of pale light that filtered into the hanger bay. The silence was oppressive, the stillness absolute—as if the very air had given up on circulating centuries ago. Max's shuttle offered no hints, no scrawls of intent or hastily plotted courses; it sat inert, a cryptic metal sarcophagus amidst the graveyard of gutted spacecraft. He stepped out into the bay, the heavy thud of his boots echoing off the skeletal frames that loomed like monolithic reminders of a time when these docks thrummed with life. Brock's gaze traced the lone set of footprints in the dust—Max's path, a tangible thread through the enigma. They stretched away from the shuttle, leading into the depths of the bay, towards the uncertain heart of the colony ship. With practiced movements, he unsealed his helmet, lifting it just enough to let the stale air kiss his face. It was a risk—the thin atmosphere within that hugged the exterior of Titan-class behemoth could harbor any number of dangers—but his oxygen reserves were a blinking caution in his suit's diagnostics. The ship's sheer size created a micro-environment, sustained by ancient technology that whispered its persistence; oxygen generators hummed in the distance, their low drone a comforting promise against the void. The air was cold, dry, carrying the faintest metallic tang that spoke of long-abandoned ships and the ghostly echoes of the absent crews. Brock's breath formed small clouds before him as he breathed in cautiously, watching for signs of wooziness, nausea, anything that indicated contamination. The ship's interior was another unknown variable, but for now, this pocket of atmosphere was his ally. He glanced up at name of the ship emblazoned across its outer hull; the Aurora. He knew of the ship, though he’d never encountered it before. This was the twin Titan-class generational colony ship to his own ship, the Destiny–built three-hundred thousand years ago around another gas giant; Jupitar. He resealed his helmet, he’d learned all he would here. The oxygen generators still worked, and the thin atmosphere that hugged the moon-sized ship still worked. He connected his suit's dwindling air supply to the shuttle’s onboard tanks. The reassuring hiss of transferring gas was a small victory—a brief respite in the desolation. He watched the gauge's needle climb, green numbers ticking upward, buying him more precious minutes to unravel the mystery of the Aurora and find Max. Brock knew the inner sanctum of the colony ship might not share this breathable reprieve, but each step forward required preparation, and he would not be deterred by uncertainty or the specter of suffocation. His eyes trailed up to the outer rotational ring visible through the gaping maw of the open bay doors. It turned lazily, a lethargic giant, the failing mechanics spelled disaster; a ticking clock counting down the years until Aurora's fatal embrace with the planet below. The engineers of old would never have stood by and let such neglect take hold without cause. Chilled air brushed against his faceplate as he pondered the behemoth structure of the outer hull. A Titan-class ship was a marvel of engineering, a tri-layered leviathan designed to withstand the perils of the void. And yet, the giant bay doors yawned wide, exposing Aurora’s vulnerable innards to cosmic winds and debris. Why abandon such defenses? Why strip the ship of its protective scales? Oxygen tank refilled, Brock squared his shoulders and followed the path laid bare by Max's bootprints. Pushing forward, Brock followed the indented path left by Max, his boots crunching softly in the dust. Here, amidst the graveyard of ships, lay secrets untold, whispers of a past slipping through his fingers like sand. He needed answers, and every fiber of his being was attuned to the trail before him. Ruminations gave way to the task at hand as Brock pressed on, his suit's lights casting eerie shadows across the skeletal remains of once-proud vessels. As he moved, he cataloged each detail, storing it away for later scrutiny. He objective for now was to find Max, solving the mystery of what happened here might be discovered as he searched, or it might be solved later. Every step he took on the Aurora would bring him closer to understanding, or so he hoped. Somewhere between the silence and the stardust, between the derelicts of spacefaring dreams, lay the truth behind the abandonment—and perhaps the key to finding Max. Brock's heavy boots thudded against the metal floor as he approached the airlock. The door loomed before him, a silent sentinel guarding the secrets of the Aurora's inner sanctum. He knew the airlock well, a testament to human ingenuity and the epitome of security with its layers of armor designed to shield the lifeblood of the ship. The airlock stood open, the manual hand-crank lying on the floor where Max had abandoned it. That Max had resorted to manually forcing the airlock open was only more evidence the ship was dying. Brock braced himself for confrontation, the possibility of hostile forces amassing just beyond the threshold. After all, his arrival had been anything but subtle—the clamor of his armored suit must have echoed like a drumbeat of war through these hollow chambers. He squeezed through the gap, what met him was not the barrel of a gun or the challenge of a sentry. Only more of the oppressive hush of abandonment filled the space. Dust particles danced in the beams of his suit’s lights, mocking him with their undisturbed tranquility. The silence was a tangible thing, wrapping around him, suffocating any hope that Max's trail would be an easy one to follow. Brock let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his chest tight with the tension of unmet expectations. No army lay in wait, no sign of life stirred—only echoes of a past that seemed as distant as the stars themselves. He continued to follow Max’s bootprints as they meandered among the derelict husks of vehicles, the silent sentinels of a crew that once lived here. The bootprints led first to a shuttle bus, its windows like blind eyes staring into oblivion; then a cargo truck, its tires deflated and its body succumbing to the embrace of time. Each stop told of Max's search for a spark of life within these machines, each abandonment a testament to the futility of his quest. As Brock followed the path his comrade had carved through the dust, it became obvious where Max had been headed. The bridge loomed before him, a cathedral of command now echoing only with the ghosts of orders once given. Stepping onto the Bridge, the vast emptiness struck him—an amphitheater abandoned mid-performance, the actors vanished, leaving only their silence behind. Methodically, Brock commenced his examination, hands gliding over control panels as if searching for a pulse. The ship had been set to orbit the gas giant unattended, as if the crew had intended to slip into cryogenic slumber, entrusting their lives to the automated caretaker of the Aurora. He tapped the master cryo panel, anticipating tiny lights that represented rows of hibernating figures cradled in their high-tech cocoons. Instead, the screen blinked back at him with an impossible truth: no souls slept within the ship's embrace. Not one. Perplexed, he navigated to the population indicators, fingers dancing across the interface with practiced ease. The numbers were stark, unfathomable—150 million awake. A number that defied design, a census that could capsize the very balance of life aboard this leviathan of space. The Titan-class colony ship, the proud Aurora, was not made to sustain such a wakeful horde. Brock's mind reeled; the implications were staggering, the potential for disaster as boundless as the void that enveloped them. "Max, what did you walk into?" Brock murmured, the first spoken words to fracture the chapel-like quietude of the Bridge. There was no response but the hum of systems and the whisper of circulating air—mute witnesses to a mystery unfolding. Brock shook his head, disbelieving the digital oracle before him. False readings or dire reality, the answer lay not here but within the heart of the ship where humanity, in some unknown state, persisted against all odds. The navigation panel caught his eye, a central fixture on the Bridge. Brock had checked the systems he was trained to monitor; life support, cryo status, population status, and engineering, but Max had gone to the control panels he was trained to operate. Brock went to the panel and looked down. An equation was scratched into the dust. Brock chuckled. Max didn’t need to write such simple equations down, he could easily solve them in his sleep. Max had known Brock would follow, and was leaving instructions. Brock nodded silently to himself. The equation only confirmed what he knew, the ship was falling into planet, but he didn’t know when. Max’s equation gave a detailed projection of the ship’s remaining life. The Aurora would descend into the gas giant and be crushed in 9 years, 3 months, 14 days. Max’s instructions were clear. If something happened to him, either fix the Aurora and save it, or don’t be on the Aurora in 9 years. And it made sense. The Destiny wouldn’t arrive for another 2,800 years. It would have been common sense for Brock to park the scout ship in one of the abandoned hanger bays where it would safe, and wait out the millennia in cryo there. Max was warning them not to bring the scout ship here for the long cryo sleep. Brock turned away, and left the Bridge. Max’s bootprints led to the airlock into the inner-habitat where there might be some answers to this mystery. Brock's fingers hesitated over the worn airlock’s keypad, a sense of foreboding crowding his thoughts. He pressed down, initiating the airlock sequence. Gears unseen groaned in protest, their long silence interrupted by the sudden demand to function. This door did function, barely. The armored door yielded with a guttural screech that reverberated through the hollow expanse, begrudgingly parting just enough for Brock to slip through. The moment he crossed the threshold, an invisible wave of fetid air assaulted him. Brock stifled a cough, his body instinctively recoiling from the pungent mixture of decay and smoke that filled his nostrils. His suit's filters labored to cleanse the air he breathed, but the stench was omnipresent, clawing its way into his senses. Eyes tearing from the acrid smoke that seemed to slither along the floor, Brock blinked rapidly, willing his vision to pierce the dimness. Above, the sun lamps—those few that still flickered with life—cast a sickly glow across the cavernous interior, their light struggling against the oppressive darkness. Brock's pupils constricted against the smoky haze, his vision slowly resolving the chaos that lay before him. The lush greenery he had expected was absent, replaced by a scarred landscape that bore little resemblance to the artificial paradise it was meant to be. His gaze swept across what once would have been rolling forests and bubbling streams, now a barren tableau etched with the signs of societal collapse. Here and there, the remnants of trees stood like sentinels over their fallen brethren, their trunks charred and leafless. Amidst this devastation, humanity clung to survival in a mockery of civilization. The ship's inhabitants had cobbled together dwellings from whatever materials they could scavenge, fashioning a twisted facsimile of homes along serpentine paths that cut through the desolation. Campfires, like beacons of desperation, flickered throughout the expanse, casting an eerie dance of shadows upon the faces of those gathered around them. These were the hearths of a new dark age, where the technological marvels that had carried them across the stars were nothing but relics, incomprehensible to the hands that now wielded tools of a more primitive era. As Brock took in the sight, a profound sadness welled within him—a mourning for the lost potential of the Aurora and her people. He thought of Max, his steadfast comrade, navigating this labyrinthine nightmare alone, seeking answers where there seemed only to be questions. With a grim determination, Brock moved forward, his boots crunching softly against the detritus beneath him. The memories of a forest that could breathe life into a ship the size of a small moon haunted him as he traversed the corrupted habitat. The stark contrast between what was intended and what had come to pass. His instincts flared to life as four men clothed in rags and carrying wooden clubs approached. Brock's stance was as solid as the reinforced steel of his mining suit, a monolithic presence amid the smoldering decay of the habitat. The lead man's voice cut through the haze, "You are a prisoner of Lord Shutter." His tone was authoritative, yet it carried a timbre of desperation, a clinging to old hierarchies in a world unspooled. Brock scoffed inwardly at the absurdity. The disparity between his own technologically-enhanced might and their crude wooden weapons was stark. With a hiss of hydraulics, he lifted his visor, revealing a steely gaze that bore into the self-appointed leader. "Do you know of a man that came through here with an accent like me?" His question was direct, his voice a low rumble that brooked no nonsense. The ringleader's ragged countenance hardened, his posture defiant as if the very act of standing against the titan before him endowed him with power. "Silence prisoner!" he roared back, emboldened by the proximity of his comrades. As if on cue, they surged forward, clubs raised in a display of primitive aggression. With a swift, almost dismissive gesture, Brock's armored hand shot out, ensnaring the shouting man and hoisting him effortlessly into the air. The other three descended upon Brock, their clubs pummeling the impervious alloy of his suit, their efforts as effective as rain against a mountainside. "Have you seen a man that speaks like me?" Brock repeated, his tone now edged with impatience. Suspended above the ground, the leader's bluster gave way to fear, his body shaking as though he might come apart at the seams. "This is Shutter territory," he gasped out, "the Fleeter is a prisoner of Lord Shutter." Brock registered the information, his mind swiftly cataloging it as critical. Max, branded a 'Fleeter,' was somewhere within the grasp of this so-called Lord Shutter. It was a lead, however tenuous, and Brock knew that time was slipping away with each wasted breath. He would have to navigate this fractured society carefully to find his friend and unravel the mystery of the Aurora's fate. Brock's gaze swept over the dilapidated structures huddled together like a mockery of civilization. The ramshackle buildings, pieced together from the carcasses of shuttles, were an affront to their former glory. "Shutter territory," the phrase echoed in his mind while he surveyed the grimy edifices. It clicked; these weren't merely survivors but remnants of a fractured society, divided and decayed. "Shutters" derived from "shuttles" – a tragic devolution of terms across generations. He surmised these men might be the shuttle pilots' descendants, clinging to a warped semblance of their ancestors' roles. And Max they had branded Fleeter, likely due to the Feet uniform Max wore igniting some memory or story passed down the generations. If Fleet pilots represented another splinter group, then Max's uniform could have made him a target, mistaken for an enemy by these 'Shutters.' A surge of adrenaline coursed through Brock as he watched the three assailants. With strategic precision, Brock's armored arm extended in a sweeping motion, knocking them aside with the ease of swatting flies. They scattered to the ground, disarmed and dazed. Turning to face the leader still gripped firmly in his grasp, Brock took a moment to acknowledge the gravity of his next action. This was uncharted territory for him—violence was not in his nature, let alone the taking of life. But the dire circumstances left little room for hesitation. They sought to imprison him, to make him a pawn in their petty power struggles. War was thrust upon him without invitation, and in war, there were casualties. His comrade's well-being hung in the balance, and that superseded any moral dilemma. With a steely resolve, Brock tightened his hold, the man's desperate gasps punctuating the air. A conflicted storm raged within—compassion warring with necessity—but there was no time for such contemplations. Brock's mission was clear: find Max, ascertain his condition, and escape this fragmented hellscape. But, could he kill? The moment stretched into an eternity as Brock considered the question until he released the man abruptly, allowing him to crumple to the ground with his compatriots. Brock's determination burned brighter than ever, but killing in cold blood was the line he didn’t want to cross. The problem would be keeping these men from sounding the alarm too soon. The solution came from the mining suit he wore. He lifted his hand, and discharged an electrical blast at the men. The suit wasn’t a combat suit, nor was the device he used on them meant for combat, but it was effective; the electric discharge was meant to probe for mineral deposits on an asteroid Brock’s breath came in measured heaves as he hauled the unconscious men across the ash-covered ground and back to the airlock. He opened both the inner and outer doors. With a disdainful grimace, he unsealed the suit, shrugging off its protective embrace. There was a brief pang of vulnerability as the cold air of the ship kissed his skin, the musty scent of decay filling his nostrils. But this was not the time for comfort or second-guessing. He deposited the suit beyond the airlock where it would be safe until he retrieved it. Next, he stooped beside the nearest prone figure, fingers fumbling as he stripped away the rags that clung to the man's body. Each article of clothing was a layer of disguise, a necessary deception. As he dressed himself in the soiled fabric, the coarse threads scratching against his flesh, Brock felt a twinge of revulsion—not for the grime and odor, but for the necessity of this masquerade. The rags hung loosely on his frame, the fabric stained with the sweat and toil of another life. He could sense the desperation woven into each fiber, a silent testament to the collapse of order and humanity that had befallen the Aurora. He sealed the men inside the airlock, but set the door to the inner habitat to cycle open in a few hours to allow them to escape. The door would close again once they were gone. Silence was his ally now, stealth his weapon of choice. And so, Brock melded into the dimness, moving with the practiced care of one who understood that brute force was not always the answer. Ahead, the labyrinthine innards of the Aurora beckoned, harboring secrets and dangers alike, while Brock's resolve hardened into a singular focus—rescue Max and unravel the mystery of this dystopian nightmare.