Maxwell blinked long-crusted over eyes to semi consciousness as he regarded the haze about him in confusion.  Gennosuke was gone, but that wouldn't cross his mind for a few minutes yet.  The red emergency lights rotated scouring the room in sweeping cycles of red.  That was one of his few sources of light and, compared to much of the ship, was generous.  As Mobius rolled over and pushed himself up, his bones creaked and fatigue settled into his muscles.
 
[i]How long was I out for?[/i] He thought.
 
A wave of nausea hit him, and he steeled himself against the ten pound pit that settled in his stomach.  Looking up, he saw the other source of light in the room--a glowing, green reactor.  He studied it for a moment, blinking as he steadied himself.
 
[i]I should get out of here.  If that thing’s leaking, then I could be in trouble.[/i]
 
Hobbling across the room, the Christmas hues were swallowed wholly by the hungry darkness of the hallway ahead.  He stared at the ceiling as if he were searching for the ship's floorplan in its rivets and once he recalled the design he stepped into the pitch.  His gut and his head were arguing like an old married couple.  Max remembered hearing Annie speak to him over the now-defunct engineering communications room radio.  There was power to the ship, so logically his next step should be to go to bridge.    Then again, something in his gut told him that it was time to confront whatever was lurking within the crew’s cabin.  He wouldn’t be safe until whatever it was had been dealt with.
 
He stopped in his tracks and considered things.  Perhaps there was a happy medium.  He’d go to neither and, instead, head to the armory to arm himself for the crew’s quarters.  He believed the armory to be in the rear of the ship, but he wasn’t completely certain.  Turning on his heel, he followed a hunch that the armory was the opposite way he came.
 
Fortune favored Max yet again, and after twenty minutes of meandering through dark corridors he stumbled into a strip where the generator was able to power lighting.  He exhaled in relief as he crept up to the door that was labeled “Armory” in the Red Technocracy’s native tongue.  Slipping into the light, he examined the door, then the keypad next to it.  The pad suggested a bioscan was required in the form of a handprint.  That would be a problem.  Judging by the LED’s it was functioning, but that meant that the coupled security measures also were.  The Red Technocracy’s spending seemed to go all into armaments, and their security protocols were sophisticated, to say the least.
 
[i]I could hack it…[/i] he considered.
 
And perhaps he could, but he didn’t have ANITA, so there was a larger chance of failure.  Lacking the confidence, and unwilling to risk the consequences, Max decided he’d find another way into the armory.  He turned his shoulders and started looking around the lit sections, searching for anything he could use, anything that could help him, anything at all.  Feeling around walls, he found what looked like a grate that was sprayed over with red paint.  He blinked a few times as he mumbled pronunciations of the unconventional dialect,  “Repair? No--maintenance. Maintenance!”
 
Crouching down, the operative forced his fingers through the grating and with a motion not too dissimilar from an angled deadlift he used his legs, back, and arm muscles to rip the cover from the wall.  Peering into the darkness of the small access vent, he sighed, squared his shoulders, and crawled in.  Though he was skilled in the art of stealth and subterfuge, Max was probably not Mobius Operative’s prime choice for shimmying through cramped maintenance vents.  Leave that for Thomas or the new girl…

A combination of pausing to remember the girl’s name and getting his shoulders stuck in a corner  halted his advance.  The struggle was one of a few that would impede an expedient advance into the armory, but eventually in his struggle through claustrophobic vents he was able to dislodge the hanging vent and come crashing down into the barren room beyond.
 
The lit room was about thirty by thirty with weapon lockers lining the west edge.  In the center were two rows of benches, and to the right were several suits of body armor still mounted on mannequins.  To the north, and Max’s right stood the entryway to the room and exit to the hallway he’d snuck in through, and to the south there were two doorways both of which were shut.  Quickly noting his surroundings, Max saw what he needed and immediately shifted through the body armor, finding something that would fit him.
 
The suits were of well-enough quality, likely comparable to what was now standard-issue for F67X infantry deployment.  He was definitely getting a suit second-hand, a blast scar splayed across the plated chestpiece of the ensemble.  He shrugged, deciding that the imperfections gave the piece character.  As he slipped on the pants, and shoved his arms through the sleeves, he noted the brand tag that, for some reason, stood out to him more than it should have, probably because it was in english and not russian. [b]Resolve[/b], it said.
 
When he was done he moved over to the locker, flicking it open and pulling out one of the carbines within.  He couldn’t recall the model of the standard-issue Red Technocracy military firearm, but this resembled what he had seen in the past.  The exception to the rule was a large decal branded into the side of the assault rifle that also read, in english, [b]Logic[/b].
 
Getting out of the armory was much simpler than getting in.  The security protocols didn’t prevent someone from exiting, only from entering.  Even though parts of the hallway were lit, Max was able to use the digital scope to the assault rifle for the parts that weren’t.  The twenty minute journey was nearly halved with that little aid.
 
Finally, he arrived at the nook that led to the crew’s quarters.  It was just how he remembered it when he passed by it earlier.  There was no sign, no Russian, telling him what it was.  He knew. His gut told him.  That ten pound pit in his stomach turned over and dumped into his heels.  He could smell iron in the air, and something damp was pooled near his feet, not even a meter from the main entryway.  It was crypt-quiet, the kind of solitude Mobius hadn’t experienced in a long time.  He exhaled sharply and took a step towards the crew cabin, knowing only his own inhibitions kept him from entering.
 
“I wouldn’t do that…”
 
A voice spoke behind him that caused Max to wheel around, drop to one knee, and narrow in on his sights.  No one.  [i]You would think I’d be more used to this kind of thing by now,[/i] the operative grimaced, exasperated, [i]that was Forge’s voice.[/i]
 
Rising to his feet, he ignored Forge’s warning.  The last time he saw the guy, his face was half missing and he had turned into a cannibal.  His advice, even if it agrees with the gut theory, isn’t my compass.
 
“Getting out of here is.” Max assented in a half-mental, half-verbal conversation with himself.
 
His eyes widened in tandem with the door he pulled it open.  

Inside, he saw-