PRIVATE TRANSIT – NIGHT - DISTRICT III
The city lights vanished behind them as the armored vehicle cut through the outskirts of Dream City. The silence was almost reverent—until Maxwell Erbinger finally spoke.
Christopher sat across from him. The man was not what he expected.
He had imagined someone louder, maybe even crueler. Instead, he found himself listening to a soft-spoken, elegantly dressed figure whose words sank into the air like poison in wine.
"So," Maxwell began, tapping his cane gently against the floor, "Butch sent you, didn't he?"
Christopher gave a small nod. "Yeah. I—uh—I've been working under him for a while now."
Maxwell's lips curled.
"He doesn't usually keep people around. Not unless he sees something in them. And if he does see something, it usually means he's trying to use it before it rots." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "So tell me, what exactly did he see in you, I wonder?"
Christopher straightened, unsure how to answer.
"Well—he said I was good with tactical logistics and…"
Maxwell waved it off. "Ah, he said things. They always do. He's impulsive, Butch. A blunter instrument. Always has been. Men like me? We're different. We see the big picture."
Christopher frowned faintly, but Maxwell leaned in with a conspiratorial tone.
"You want to know how a man like me survives a B16 cancer? How a man who was supposed to die eight years ago is still walking, still talking, still fighting to 'save the city'?"
He didn't wait for a reply.
"It's because I'm willing, Christopher. Willing to do what others won't. I don't waste time on ethics or ideals. I don't bleed for lost causes. I adapt. I make sacrifices." His voice dropped lower. "Even if it means sacrificing someone else."
Christopher shifted slightly. "That sounds… cold."
Maxwell grinned. "Cold? No. Practical. Look around you, son. Dream City's built on bones and ambition. Only the naive think otherwise. You either build with them, or you become them."
Christopher felt a small knot form in his chest. The words were charming, persuasive—but something about them felt off. He couldn't place it.
Maxwell patted his shoulder lightly.
"You've got a good head on your shoulders. Honest eyes. That's rare. You'll go far—if you stick close. Real close."
Christopher gave a tight smile. "I'll keep that in mind."
UNKNOWN LOCATION
Their vehicle came to a halt outside an anonymous complex at the edge of a dead zone. No signals. No drones. No guards. Just black towers swallowed by the night.
"We're here," Maxwell said.
"Here?" Christopher looked out, cautious.
"The Hacker Showroom," Maxwell said smoothly. "The real one. Not the kiddie ops. This is where the Destroyer works. Off-grid, off-record, and off his meds most of the time."
He chuckled at his own joke.
"Only someone like him can do what we need. I'm sure Butch never told you this part, he is all about brute force and no brains most times. But me?" He tapped his temple. "I think in decades."
He opened the door and stepped out. Christopher followed, his hand instinctively going to his holster.
Maxwell saw it and shook his head.
"No weapons past this point," he said. "The Destroyer has rules."
Christopher hesitated. "Seriously?"
Maxwell's smile widened, but his eyes didn't.
Christopher removed the weapon slowly and locked it away in the drop case.
INT. THE PASSAGES
The halls were dim, metallic, and eerily quiet. No ambient tech sounds. No comm signals. The silence was unnatural.
As they moved deeper, Maxwell spoke again—but softer this time.
"You know, there's something freeing about walking into the jaws of the beast."
Christopher blinked. "Come again?"
"This place. This man. He's dangerous. But he's also brilliant. And when you're dying like I am, brilliance becomes more valuable than safety."
Christopher stopped walking. "Why did you bring me?"
Maxwell turned to him, face shadowed by the flickering corridor lights.
"You are here to observe, and that makes you useful."
"Useful?" Christopher's tone sharpened.
He turned without another word and kept walking.
Christopher didn't move for a moment. Something deep inside him whispered that he'd just been marked—and he hadn't even realized it.
INT. THE DESTROYER'S LAIR – LOWER LEVELS
The lift opened to a chamber that felt carved out of the abyss itself. Screens floated midair, walls pulsed with flickering code. The temperature dropped by several degrees.
And there he was.
The Destroyer.
Lean. Tall. Titanium-spined. His fingers flexed like razors. Tattoos of machine code danced across his skin like living scripture. His eyes were cold, precise, inhuman.
He stood in silence.
Christopher took a step in—his heart pounding. This was the man who could crack Bineth's systems. Maybe even end this war.
Then he felt something jab the back of his neck.
A taser.
Pain tore through him. He collapsed, convulsing.
Maxwell stood over him, smiling calmly.
"Sorry kid, when you're old, sick and in constant pains, when you beg for death each night and it doesn't come because you are scared really then you start wanting more."
Christopher couldn't move. His body was locking up.
"You were meant to chase dreams. I was meant to steal them. And now, thanks to you, I get to live a little longer. My neural scanners found a lucky break with you the other day, I just knew I couldn't pass up the chance, turns out, you were my perfect match, "
Maxwell looked to the Destroyer, who nodded. Two silent manuals dragged Christopher across the floor.
"I needed someone clean," Maxwell muttered. "Someone… disposable, think about it this way, I am giving your life a meaning."
Christopher tried to scream but couldn't. The last thing he saw was the Destroyer leaning over him, tools gleaming in cold light.
Then—
An explosion.
Gunfire.
Screams.
And someone in a suit—not like the others—cutting through the dark.
Maybe it was a dream.
Maybe it was hope.
Then—nothing.