Exiting the elevator and entering the topmost level of the Survivor’s stern superstructure, the first thing you notice is how insignificant you feel within the moment. The arched ceiling overhead is twice as high as the average deck height on the rest of the ship, and the polished stone-tiled floor fills the space with an echo each time you take a step. This towering foyer shrinks to become two halls which offer access to many smaller rooms and offices in the superstructure's ‘wings’. However, the titanic double doors that lead to the DOATEC Executive Office are impossible to ignore, their colossal height dwarfing you by comparison.

“This area is off-limits to passengers, you know." A voice echoes from behind you as you approach the sealed entrance. "There's no meetings on the schedule right now. Did you have an appointment?"

The owner of the voice, a petite blonde woman no taller than the middle of your chest, steps into view from the port-side hallway. Tied into high pigtails, her sandy blonde hair cascades beyond the waistline of her gothic black and white dress. Her platform leather boots echo in the cavernous foyer with each purpose-filled step she takes toward you. Dainty hands clutch a wooden broom handle with vice-like grip, her icy blue eyes narrowing in your direction, awaiting your response.

"No, but I have much to discuss with Ms. Douglas." You attempt to set the young woman at ease with a tempered smile. "I'm with the United Nations, sent to audit DOATEC ahead of its announcement regarding a fifth World Combat Championship."

"Auditor?" The tone in her voice shifts from defensive to accusatory. "You can't expect to show up like this without going through the proper channels!"

You shake your head, clearing your throat. "Who are you, exactly?"

"I'm Marie Rose!" She announces her name with self-assured vigor. "I'm Lady Helena's personal servant."

"Nice to meet you Ms. Rose. Now, if you don't mind..."

"Hey, hey, hey! Not so fast, Auditor." The young woman moves to block your path. "Is Lady Helena expecting you?”

“No," you admit with a reluctant sigh. "I was just following the advice in the message you sent to my email address. Didn't you say it would be a good idea to have a look around?”

Marie shakes her head, her long pigtails whipping the sides of her ruffled skirt. “I think you should make an appointment if you want to see Lady Helena. She’s very busy, you know!”

“Sure, she is,” your voice does nothing to hide your cynicism as you cross your arms. “I see no harm in coming back later. Let her know I stopped by.”

“Of course,” Marie ushers you back to the elevator. “If you have any questions, just contact Dr. Holovatsky via webmail. I’ll let you know when Lady Helena is able to meet with you, so leave it to me, okay?”

"I don't think you're giving me any other options."

Marie smiles up at you with eyes squeezed shut. "Now you're getting it. See you around, Auditor!

A spacious balcony overlooks the lower deck of DOATEC’s Intelligence Office where you stand to admire the Survivor's sprawling bow section through four colossal curved-glass windows, each one spanning the total height of the office space's foremost wall. You approach the intricate wrought-iron railing to peer down into the huge archive room below, where numerous sturdy oak bookshelves and filing cabinets stand organized into neat and tidy rows, each section bearing serial numbers printed on plastic placards. At the library's heart, a large conference table with at least a dozen swivel chairs offers a space for staff to gather and discuss their work. On either end of the balcony, beautiful spiral staircases allow access to the archive room floor.

“Tempting, is it not?”

You glance to the right, where you see Annika standing at the Intelligence Office's starboard wing entrance. She wears a subtle smile, adjusting her wireframe glasses higher onto her nose with an index finger while her blue eyes study you, gleaning any detail you dare to offer with careless abandon.

“What is, Doctor?” You feign ignorance.

She parts her lips to reveal a stunning smile as she tilts her head toward the nearest staircase. “Truth of situation, of course.” Her Slavic accent gave her words a strong punch, though her expression was far from confrontational. “It is why you have come, is it not?”

“All in due time, Dr, Holovatsky.” You shake your head as you gesture toward the port-side wing on the balcony's opposite side, where closed tinted glass doors keep your prying eyes from wandering inside. “What’s back there?”

“Not what, Auditor, but who.” She crosses her arms, shifting her weight to one side. “Those are offices of Intelligence Contractors. It is not thing you need concern yourself with, I assure you.”

You narrow your gaze at the mysterious door in the distance. “I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence if I didn’t attempt to interview them.”

As you take your step toward the door, the sound of sweet laughter rings in your ears, stopping you.

“Tsk,” Annika smiles. “It is no use. There is no one there for now. They are busy doing field assignments, you see. Perhaps, come back another time. Or, is there something I can help you with?”

You retrieve the map of the ship from your pocket and head back toward the elevator. “Like you said, Doctor. I’ll come back another time.”

Diligent DOATEC crew members wearing white coverall uniforms worked the main cargo hold, bathed in the warm glow of industrial flood lights mounted to black metal beams high overhead. Some men conduct rigorous inspections of the security moorings keeping the stacks of cargo from toppling over, while others survey the heavy equipment used in loading and unloading said containers. An ever-present whine of the gas turbine engines below the waterline fills the walls where the intake ducts draw air for the ship's incredible power plants. The noisy freight elevator you occupy grinds to a halt at the cavernous room's lowest level, the steel wire doors groaning while they slid open on heavy tracks.

During the ship's original construction, cutting-edge engineering labs, micro-manufacturing facilities, and research stations filled the bulkheads in this gargantuan space. Your map's notes sell the story of Fame's intention to use these state-of-the-art tools to bring DOATEC innovations to all the globe's four corners, offering everyone potential prosperity if they invested in humanity's future alongside him. It was a short-lived dream with a tragic ending.

However, as you study the bustling storage facility, it's clear that Helena doesn't share in her father's overzealous ambitions. Among the changes she ordered during the Survivor's recent retrofitting was the old labs' demise, stripping them bare and leaving no remnants of their previous existence. In their place she installed large rail-mounted cranes, container stack anchors, maintenance bays, and customs offices, converting the innovative heart of DOATEC's flagship into a commercial shipping powerhouse.

“Oi!” One of the cargo workers waved an arm in your direction. “Ain’t no one s’posed to be down ‘ere without permission, guv!”

You regard the burly man with an authoritative stare. “I was informed that I would be free to check the ship as I wished.”

“Eh? By whose authority?”

“Marie Rose and Dr. Holovatsky.”

“Marie, innit?” The man bellows a dismissive laugh in your direction. “That runt’s got jus’ about as much authority down ‘ere as my left shoe. Ya need the cap’n’s word to walk ‘round ‘ere. ‘Tis a bit dangerous for someone like yourself to be roamin’ the holds without proper gear.”

A smirk creeps across your lips. “Someone like me?”

“That’s what I said!” The large man pretended to clean his ear with his pinky finger. “Ya deaf, mate?”

“Do you know who I am?” You chuckle as you speak, amused by the crew member’s crass attitude.

“I look like a psychic to ya, do I? I don’t care if you’re the bloody queen dressed in a big brown overcoat, ya don’t belong down ‘ere! Go talk to Cap’n Swift if ya want a bloody tour.” The man pointed toward the elevator at your back. “Now kindly piss off, mate. I got work to do.”

As you turn to board the elevator car, you wonder what mysterious contraband hides amongst these monstrous cargo container stacks that would warrant such a bold response. Maybe you’ll pay a visit to the captain and ask her in person.

As you occupy center-stage, you feel weighted by the hollow gaze of the two thousand empty theater seats, towering a half-dozen decks high in the stern's core. Dormant spotlights leer down at you from their lofty perches, judging your unworthiness to stand in their presence. L'opéra de Delna, the largest facility aboard the entire vessel, rivals prestigious venues such as the historic Palais Garnier in Paris which inspired its design. Marble railings, gilded carvings, red velvet upholstery, and shimmering silk curtains humble you with their silent splendor. They are a reminder that art strives to touch the soul, watering dormant seeds of inspiration and empathy that go neglected by life's innumerable toils.

Clearing your throat, you tear your eyes from the awe-inspiring surroundings to read your map. Your words ride on an introspective whisper, though the stage's acoustics allow them to fill each corner of the auditorium. “Named after Fame Douglas’ beloved companion and renowned opera singer, Maria Delna, L'opéra de Delna’s architectural resplendence was a tribute to her beauty and her passion for the historic theater in which she most loved to perform.”

You fold up your map, shaking your head in solemn silence. It's a tragedy that this magnificent venue never once saw a performance from the woman who compelled its construction. Using the sound of your rough-hewn voice's echo as a meter, you can't begin to imagine how breathtaking it would be to witness a concert from someone of Maria's vocal register.

A heavy door's hinges groan from stage-left, followed by the sharp click of high-heeled boots striking the polished wooden floor. As you turn your head, the footsteps come to an abrupt stop.

“The theater is closed, mon ami,” Helena crosses her arms, wearing surprise on her face like a masquerade disguise. “What are you doing here?”

You raised the map in your hand to show her. “Exploring.”

“Well, as you can see, Auditor, there is nothing of interest here." Helena seemed to toss your answer throughout her thoughts, a distrustful glimmer settling in her eyes. "Don't you have more pressing matters to attend to?”

You tuck the paper into your overcoat's pocket and raise an eyebrow at the DOATEC CEO. “Don’t you?”

“Excusez-Moi,” her French accent sharpens her tongue, “but my business is none of yours. This stage is off-limits to passengers and guests, monsieur. You should go explore somewhere else.”

“It’s your ship, after all,” you admit as you begin to make your way to the exit. “Will you be performing anytime soon? I'd like to hear what all the fuss is about for myself one of these days.”

“If there is time, perhaps.” Helena offered with veiled sincerity. “But that time is not now, Auditor.”

“What a shame.”

You leave the blonde woman alone to her thoughts, curious on why she would be so intent on entertaining a theater full of echoes. What was she hiding from? Or, perhaps, what was she attempting to find? Internal enigmatic machinations aside, Helena was right; there's plenty of things to do and see within the Survivor's hull. Besides, engaging in a verbal sparring match with the woman you trust least in the world will do no one any good.

You stroll into Grand Palais des Marins, an enchanting ballroom located above the massive opera theater within the ship's stern. Bright sunlight floods the room through a gargantuan glass canopy, each glass pane ninety millimeters thick and rated for ballistic impacts rivaling the same protection standards as some tank armors. Heavy steel beam latticework and braided cable suspension hold these massive polycarbonate sheets together, creating the illusion of being inside a cracked snow globe, viewing the New York City skyline through a shattered lens.

Your subtle presence goes unnoticed among the influencers and aristocrats who fill the space with idle chatter and inflated egos. While you wander beneath their attention spans, your ears glean fragmented conversations over the grand piano's soft ivory tunes.

"You think it'll be like last time?"

"Could you imagine if she entered as a contender? After all that's happened?"

"I bet the announcement will be any day now! I can't wait!"

Their pretentiousness is nauseating, however this isn't the first time you've encountered tournament announcement rumors like these. In the coming weeks, many expect Ms. Douglas will deliver a rousing speech from atop these grand staircases as she’d done two years ago. After all, it's the primary reason you're here, isn't it?

“Hors d'œuvre, sir?”

A man wearing a black bowtie and matching cumberbund extends a silver platter littered with caviar-topped cracker abominations. Knowing that every major event's unseen eyes and ears are its service staff, you reach for one of the ‘delicacies’ he's offering. Raising the morsel to your lips, you stop short of biting into it, your eyes studying the waiter. “Do you think there’s any weight to these rumors of Helena announcing the next tournament soon?”

“It’s difficult to say for sure,” the man evades your question as he no doubt had been doing with everyone else.

“I think some people would disagree.” You nod toward the crowd. “True or not, I hope she isn’t planning on hosting it here in New York.”

“Why is that, sir?”

“These tournaments always seem to end with something exploding or people dying." You devour the small appetizer pinched in your fingers with vigorous chewing to avoid betraying your distaste for the texture. When finished, you give the waiter a shrug. "The way I see it, this city’s been through enough trauma without DOATEC adding to the body count.”

The waiter seemed appalled by your words. “Are you implying that DOATEC is culpable for those tragedies?”

“It’s difficult to say for sure.” You quote the man’s own words back to him with a cryptic side-eyed glance. “Thanks for the food.”

You leave him to tend to his ruffled feathers, making your way back to the exit to resume your exploration of the ship.

From the Event Center elevator lobby, you notice a pair of ominous black doors trimmed in stainless hardware at the ship's center. The doors' faces feature brushed aluminum plates with black letters spelling the words, 'DOATEC Secure Storage'. Ever curious, you push these monolithic doors aside, and beyond them, a central corridor welcomes you with a lucious ribbon of ruby-red carpet laid over gleaming black marble tiles. Faceless white walls grant you no clues, their monotony interrupted by vault doors secured with cutting-edge biometric scanners. Warm spotlight emitted from elaborate pewter sconces transform the hall into a gallery of secrets, each door becoming a mysterious exhibit unto itself. Halfway down the hall, wrought iron spiral staircases and designated lift cars beckon your attention, inviting your ascent to the upper decks. But, upon arriving you find another identical hall full of unyielding vault doors.

You wonder what secrets reside within these impenetrable barriers. Are they some corporate executive’s private dossiers implicating industry rivals? Perhaps stolen artwork masterpieces lie sealed away, shipped in ignorance by DOATEC on behalf 0f crooked politicians or foreign oligarchs? Outrageous theories run rampant as you find yourself approaching the end of the corridor; a thick wall with a set of steel double doors labeled ‘Rotorcraft Maintenance: Authorized Personnel Only’.

You glance to the empty space left in your wake, making certain that no one is there to curb your curiosity as you push your way inside the restricted area. A low whistle leaves your lips as you feast your eyes on DOATEC's private helicopter, secured to a central landing pad retracted from above via hydraulic lift system. The main rotors sweep back, pointing toward the craft's tail as technicians poke and prod its various systems, conducting thorough inspections while marking off checklists as they work.

One technician catches sight of you from his periphery. "It's about time! Did our requisition for the new skid shoes get approved?"

You wrinkle your brow in confusion. "No, I--"

The mechanic throws up exasperated hands. "What the fuck, man! Have you seen what that idiot Zack has been doing to our bird? God knows what the hell he's been landing on, but these shoes are fuckin' shot. If we don't replace 'em soon, the... hey, wait a minute. You're not with logistics! Who the hell are you?"

"I'm auditing DOATEC's facilities and staff on behalf--"

The mechanic stiffens. "Auditing? I didn't expect the FAA would be on board. Sorry, Auditor. Did you want to inspect our documentation?"

You wonder if you should correct him, but decide it best to play along. "You've been flying this helicopter with inadequate gear?"

The tech's face drains of color. "N-no, sir! That's what I've been telling engineering. We can't fly this thing again until we get new skid shoes. Damn pilots don't understand what kinda damage they're doing! They keep this up, they're gonna crack the airframe. Then we'll see how smug Chief Jenkins is when it's Helena holding his feet to the fire."

You give a small nod, doing your best to appear confident. "Sounds like you have everything under control then."

"Seems that way, don't it?" The man laughs, forgetting his nervousness for a moment. However, as his eyes widen he turns to get back to work. "Yeah. That's 'cause I do! Now, where was I... oh yeah!"

Thinking it unwise to continue your ruse, you turn back toward the vaults and decide to try your luck somewhere else. Your job is hard enough without attracting additional unwanted attention.

Relaxing ambient music fills the room while ceiling-mounted LED tubes spiral toward its center, their hues shifting across the visible spectrum with soothing subtlety. The venue's exterior curved glass wall allows for a cinematic backdrop of the New Jersey shoreline opposite downtown Manhattan. Outside, private pools and a VIP sundeck await those with deep enough pockets to rent them for their exclusive parties, though you're certain such spectacles are as shallow as they are pretentious.

Beneath the whirlpool of neon lights, welcoming leather furniture serve as luxurious islands atop an exotic, geometric-patterned black and white carpet. Inviting as they are, none of them host a single cruise passenger in their embrace. However, that isn’t to say the after-hours lounge was empty. Crew members dressed in crisp uniforms cleaned tables and polished glasses, preparing for the inevitable hustle and bustle that comes after dark.

It could've been the lack of patrons, or the pace set by ceaseless staffers, but you find your eyes hovering on an anomalous lone figure sitting at the bar. A worn black leather jacket covers his back, matching the threadbare military-style cargo pants and faded SWAT boots that complete his ensemble. Messy spiked brown hair shrouds his brooding expression while he peers into the bottom of his half-empty whiskey glass with piercing dark eyes.

Curious, you decide to take a seat next to him, signaling for the bartender’s attention. “Could I get a Manhattan?”

The young woman serving the bar issues you a friendly smile. “Of course!”

While she prepares your cocktail of rye whiskey, sweet vermouth, and bitters, the man in the leather jacket chuckles under his breath. “I'd heard you arrived, but I didn’t expect to see you here.” He took a sip of his drink. “Figured Doc Holovatsky would’ve locked you in the archive room by now.”

You mask your surprise with a seasoned poker face. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” he replied with a cryptic grin. “But, we’ve got aligned interests.”

You fight the urge to laugh. “I doubt that.”

As your drink arrives in front of you, the mysterious stranger turns to look you in the eye. “Auditor, you’re here to seek the truth, right? You want to expose those responsible for the destruction and death of the past few years and hold them accountable for their crimes, don’t you?”

You pick up your drink and take a sip. “Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” The man raises his glass to yours with an audible dink and finishes his whiskey as he stands up. “Let me give you some free advice, man. Don’t get in your own way. Biases make for nasty blind spots.”

He tosses a few odd silver coins featuring an embossed ‘Z’ on the countertop, giving a nod to the barkeeper while planting his hands into his jacket pockets. “Seeya next time, Marceline.”

You watch him leave through seamless glass doors which lead into the midship stateroom complex. In his absence you savor what remains of your drink, reflecting on his cryptic unsolicited advice, wondering what it means.

Standing in the extravagant midship complex’s heart, you stare up at the crystal chandelier which serves as the atrium’s centerpiece. Shimmering quartz crystal shards refract simulated candlelights' romantic flickering, bathing the room in a blanket of nostalgia for luxury sea travel's bygone glory days. Opposite the plaza's glass elevators, twin spiral staircases coil into a double-helix, dancing alongside white LED bulbs which appear as luminous dew pearls on spider’s silk. Polished stone floors sparkle and shine, the off-white tiles giving way to a staggering mosaic of Earth, made from rich mossy granite and bold obsidian glass.

Passengers mill throughout the area, migrating from gift shops to lounge chairs and vice versa, paying the space’s majesty little mind. You suspect history's most prominent engineers might react to this modern marvel with slack-jawed wonder, stupefied into silence by its mesmerizing prominence. Yet, the people surrounding you remain ignorant of these incredible elements which give the Survivor her sterling reputation. No, their attention remains buried in endless social media feeds and streaming service libraries.

What a waste.

Though guest services, coffee shops, souvenir parlors, and Zack Kingdom Casino access consume the atrium's two lowest decks, wide balcony catwalks and rows of carved hardwood doors line the remaining upper levels. At the helical grand staircases’ summit, seamless glass doors offer access to Le Verseau, the premier nightclub which spans the midship complex's entire width. On each deck, fore and aft hallways lead into cabin-filled wings, maximizing occupancy without sacrificing ambiance.

Entering into one of these majestic hallways, you first observe how peaceful the quiet air feels, a stark contrast to the central plaza's chattering din. Teardrop-shaped wall sconces emit the same flickering candlelight as they stretch along the avenue's cream-colored wallpaper, its gilded floral pattern plucked from a 1920s Sears catalog. Uniform pillars and archways give the corridor an organic flow, coupled with decorative oil paintings and alabaster bust sculptures.

As you explore, you speculate on what the interior rooms must be like. Given the generous spacing of the doors, they must be spacious but comparable to average resort hotel suites. On occasion, you pass by an open doorway as guests leave or enter their rooms, stealing glimpses of large flat-screen televisions and ornate furniture. Those fortunate enough to have booked exterior-facing rooms have access to gigantic windows spanning the outer wall's entire height, New York's sprawling metropolis becoming the surreal backdrop to their otherwise mundane routines.

"Are you looking for someone?" One of the guests approaches you after closing her cabin door.

"No, nothing like that. It's just..." You shake your head, feeling silly for your current train of thought.

"It's just what?" The guest coaxed, her soft voice swelling with compassion.

You sigh, burying your hands into your overcoat pockets. "At first glance, this place feels like an old movie. But, underneath the facade, it's nothing like one, is it?"

The woman's amber eyes shine as she gifts you with a smile. "Doesn't that depend on your perspective?"

"So it does, ma'am." You give her a slight nod as you turn to leave. "So it does."

Having gotten your fill of this area, you decide it’s time to move on to explore other parts of the ship. Though the midship complex has endless things to offer you, there's no lingering doubts among its halls. It's a glorified hub after all, the beating heart which connects other intriguing areas together.

If you could imagine the wildest athletic activity playground, complete with refreshment bars and rest areas, the DOA Athletic Center brings it all to life with cutting-edge style. Entering the sporting center at the lowest deck, you catch several funny looks from the passengers due to your large overcoat, black suit, and leather shoes. With side-eyed glances, they talk amongst their friends as they walk over to the basketball or volleyball courts to hone their skills.

"Who called Inspector Gadget?" A man scoffs, bro-fisting his workout partner.

"Is that guy for real?" A young woman raises her eyebrows in your direction. "Who works out in a brown trench coat?"

"Maybe he's looking for the bar?" Another guest laughs. "He seems lost."

Indifferent to their wild speculations, you move beyond the ball courts, heading upstairs to the next deck where you find a sprawling gym facility. Every type of exercise machine imaginable litters the lacquered hardwood flooring. Benches and tables arranged next to balcony railings overlook the sports arenas below, providing cruise passengers an opportunity to root for their friends while resting after finishing a set. You spot a few wall signs guiding passengers to saunas, spas, and locker rooms as well, though none of these things hold your interest.

Moving toward another set of stairs, you ascend to the next deck which has a similar layout to the gym floor. However, instead of treadmills, ellipticals, and weightlifting benches, you see boxing rings and punching bags. You notice a few passengers taking time to spar with one another, but you don’t recognize any of them as famous martial artists. An elevated running track weaves through the Athletic Center's perimeter, spanning both the second and third decks with simulated hills and sloping corners. In the Center's heart, a concrete pillar towers from the lowest deck to the ceiling, its surface littered with rock climbing handholds.

You see a few people storming toward the rooftop access as they laugh and high-five one another, hauling tennis gear in black duffel bags at their sides. Curious what’s above, you decide to head upstairs and into the bright sunshine, unprepared for the feast of recreational activities that await your arrival. Contained within a chain-link cage, a regulation-sized tennis court occupies the valley separating twin 'shark fin' towers where passengers can change their clothes, use the washroom, and access storage lockers. In addition, two massive FlowRider surfing simulators sit dormant overlooking the Survivor's upper cargo hold, due to the bitter cold New York climate. However, the winter chill means nothing to those swimming in the large enclosed pools, protected by huge arched glass canopies which offer protection from the harsh elements. Collapsible tanning chairs line the sundeck's edges, beckoning those willing to torture themselves for a healthy-looking tan despite the temperature, though you question the sanity of anyone foolish enough to try.

Convinced that you’ve seen everything this section has to offer, you decide to study your map and venture to a new area of the ship.

“Do you have a reservation, sir?”

You regard the hostess with a confident smile. “No, but—”

“Tsk,” the woman clicked her tongue, wearing an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m afraid Bistro Halcyon requires that you have a reservation ready before you can join us for dinner. Would you like to make one?”

A sigh escapes your lips as you fight the urge to shake your head. “I’m not interested in dining at the moment, ma’am. I’m just taking a look around for now.”

“Do you have a VIP boarding pass?”

“No, but—”

She winces at you. “Oh, I’m so sorry, but without a VIP pass or a reservation, there’s nothing I can do. If you’d like to make a reservation, there are available slots later this week.”

You shake your head. “I’m just interested in a tour. Would you mind showing me around the venue?”

The hostess shifts her weight from one leg to the other as she tenses up her shoulders. “A tour?” She looks you up and down, her wince growing in severity. “Dressed like that?”

You look down at your brown overcoat and worn leather shoes. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Bistro Halcyon has a strict black-tie dress code. I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t allow you inside dressed in casual business attire.”

This place made your stomach churn. Such an exclusive venue on an opulent cruise liner such as the Survivor reeked of elitist overtones, causing you to wonder what types of conversations and backroom dealings were taking place inside. Perhaps you should ask Dr. Holovatsky her opinion on the matter, or maybe approach Ms. Douglas instead.

“Sir,” the hostess attempts to diffuse your rising frustrations with a disarming smile. “Would you like to make a reservation?”

“Maybe next time.” You turn to leave, shaking your head. Other places remain on your list, and some fancy restaurant wasn’t going to deter your exploration of DOATEC’s flagship headquarters.

Standing in front of a beautiful curved glass wall as thick as any traditional aquarium tank, you find it astounding that the scene of exotic sea creatures and colorful coral reefs aren’t real. Instead, high-tech projectors render archived footage recorded by tiny cameras on the Survivor's outer hull during her numerous globe-trotting voyages.

According to your map, the Port Douglas Virtual Aquarium got its name from a northeastern Australian coastal city that boasts a stunning aquarium of its own. While you can’t say you’ve ever been there, you imagine the striking footage of the barrier reef playing on the high definition display provides a much better ambiance than the Hudson River's murky waters.

“It's a wonderful view, isn’t it?”

A woman wearing a white button-up blouse with long raven-black hair stands next to you, her arms folded against her back. She wore a disarming, gorgeous smile, however her almond-shaped brown eyes were anything but. Like a predator sizing up her prey, she analyzes your face with a raptor's gaze, as though your mere existence had somehow challenged hers.

You smile back, undeterred. “It is, as long as you can keep yourself from remembering it’s just an illusion.”

“What a pragmatic perspective!” She laughs. “I take it you’re not much of a romantic?”

“It’s not something I’ve ever been accused of before, no.”

She nods in approval. “It does keep things simple.”

The lingering tone in her voice was like fresh bait in calm waters, and taking your chances, you decide to bite. “I sense a caveat coming on.”

"Well, simple isn't always ideal." Her smile melts. “Without romance the world loses its beauty.”

“Even if you know it’s a lie?”

“Do you, though?”

You raise your eyebrows at her. “Do I what?”

Her dark umber eyes dance like a cat who has cornered a mouse. “Do you know it’s a lie?”

“We’re not talking about fish anymore, I see,” you scoff, shaking your head. “Let’s skip the foreplay and get down to business. What are you implying?”

She raises a hand to her flawless porcelain skin, brushing some hair from her cheek and behind her ear as she feigns innocence. Nodding toward the gorgeous view of the Great Barrier Reef, she again offers you a sly smile. “This is real; just as much as you or I. The colorful reefs, the dazzling fish,” her clear voice trails off as she turns to leave, “and the mysterious creatures that hide in the shadows. Just because it isn’t something you can touch, doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Sometimes, the only difference between illusion and reality is perspective.”

Finding yourself plunged into silent solitude, your eyes linger in the recording's darkest pockets, wondering what might be hiding there that the camera couldn't capture. Seconds merge into minutes as you realize it isn't the monsters in the deep water that concern you, but the monsters hiding in plain sight pretending they're prey. You decide it might be best if you leave for another part of the ship, before all this self reflection clouds your resolve.

“May I help you?”

A nurse wearing turquoise scrubs looks up at you as he sets down a clipboard on his desk. Behind him, a long hallway stretches toward the front of the ship. Unremarkable doors line the walls, each one bearing numbers like typical hospital rooms tend to have. In the distance, you spot two women wearing similar scrubs pushing along a stainless steel cart stocked with food trays. They pass a man wearing a white lab coat as he rounds the corner and beyond your line of sight, likely the resident doctor in charge of those unlucky enough to need this place.

“Sir?”

You return your attention to the man seated in front of you. “I’m doing some exploring of the ship, and I was curious to see how the Infirmary—”

The sound of arguing spilled into the hallway as one of the exam room doors burst open. “Wait, Mr. Bayman! I still need to finish—”

“Not ‘Mr. Bayman’.” The towering Russian man leered down at the nurse following him. “Is just Bayman.”

“R-right, Bayman. Won’t you come back inside and finish—”

“No,” he growls as he starts marching down the hallway.

“But, your arm—!”

The mercenary rolls his right arm in a circle at the shoulder as he places his opposite palm against his collarbone. Despite being several feet away, you can hear the joint pop with a sickening crunch. Afterward, he grunts in satisfaction. “ls better now. Piss off.”

The pursuant nurse stopped and threw up his hands in exasperation. “Lady Helena will hear about this, you know!”

“Go tell her.” Bayman smirks. “See if I care.”

Your eyes remain glued to the titanic soldier of fortune as he approaches the exit to the infirmary. He bores into you with his frigid blue eyes, a hardened scowl chiseled onto his face. “What are you looking at?”

You stand tall, refusing to break eye contact. “I’m not sure yet.”

“You’re Annika’s new pet, aren’t you?” Bayman grunts. “Ты не выглядишь очень сильным.”

You narrow your eyes, your posture unwavering. “I don’t speak Russian.”

He smirks as he pushes past you. “Stay out of my way and there will be no trouble.”

“And if I don’t?” You turn to face him as he opens the door to the exit.

“You will stay out of my way, or I will remove you.” He stepped into the hall. “Makes no difference to me.”

After he had left, you look back to the nurse at the infirmary’s reception desk. “What’s his problem?”

The man shakes his head as he rubs his temples with his fingertips. “No one knows. He won’t speak to anyone unless he has to, so it’s anyone’s guess. There’s a bet among the crew, but…” He lets his words trail off, his eyes growing wide. “Well, it’s nothing a passenger should concern themselves with. My apologies.”

“I’m not a passenger,” You say with conviction. “What’s the bet?”

The nurse sighs. “It’s nothing, really.”

“If it’s nothing, then you won’t mind telling me, right?”

“Well…” The nurse leans back in his chair. “Scuttlebut is that Ms. Douglas keeps him around because he has dirt on the old DOATEC regime, but there are others that think he sticks around because she has dirt on him. No one knows for sure.”

You turn toward the exit, reaching for the map in your pocket. “If I were a betting man, I’d put money on the former.”

The casino floor teems with passengers, their excited voices overpowering the upbeat music playing from speakers hidden among the decorative plants. Despite the crowds that attempt to distract you, it's easy to see that this gambling den is nothing like any other casino you’ve ever experienced. It embraces the theme of antiquated architecture found on the rest of the ship, featuring classic European arches and gilded light fixtures. However state-of-the-art highlights such as sleek glass railings, beautiful fountains with rainbow LED accents, and large format televisions advertising upcoming events provide a refreshing contrast against those timeless elements.

Zack Kingdom Casino spans the complete width of the decks it occupies within the bow superstructure's rearmost section. Rows of slot machines, pachinko parlors, blackjack card tables, roulette wheels, and craps tables fill every corner of the gaming floors. At the peak of a set of glorious central staircases was an elevated sports bar and lounge where one could get dinner while watching any sporting event you could imagine. This debaucherous house hosted every method of gambling you could fathom, and yet it wore such magnificent style that you were finding it difficult to see the grime of its nature.

A small adolescent girl with pink hair and violet eyes zooms by you, racing toward the poker tables as fast as her short legs would carry her. A ruffled white and red dress does nothing to slow her pace, while the teddy bear she clutches against her chest hangs on for dear life. The spectacle of a kid in a casino piques your curiosity, so you decide to follow after her and see what she’s so eager to find.

“Rio! Rio!” the girl shouts jumping up and down. “Guess what Choco and I found on the ship!?”

“Mint!” You overhear a cheerful woman’s voice, but its owner remains shrouded behind nearby palm tree decorations. “What are you doing here? You know I’m working right now.”

The child placed her arms on her hips and laughed. “Aw, c’mon, Rio! You’re always so busy. You can’t let your time working here be just like it was at Mr. Howard’s resort.” She reached for the woman’s hand and pulled her arm. “It won’t take long, I promise!”

A gorgeous woman staggers into view as Mint tugs on her wrist. Nothing about her is subtle. Bold hot-pink hair frames her heart-shaped face, making her deep evergreen eyes pop like fireworks. The uniform she wore, a white-trimmed, low-cut black vest and matching dark miniskirt, hugged her hourglass figure like a glove.

She smiles down at the child with the toy bear, her eyes halfway closed. “What do you think Mr. Bridges might say if he found out I left in the middle of my shift?”

Mint tilts her head as she pondered the question. “I dunno. Zack seems like a fun guy! He’s way cooler than that stuffy old Mr. Howard. I’m sure he won’t mind if you take a short break.”

Rio rubbed the back of her head as she looked up. Her gaze widens as she notices you observing their conversation, but in a flash, her expression eases back into a polite smile. “Can I help you, sir?”

You clear your throat, holding up an open palm. “Apologies. I was investigating the ship, but your little friend caught me off guard. I don’t see many children running around in casinos.”

“Who are you calling little, huh?!” Mint sticks her tongue at you. “You aren’t so big.”

“Mint!” Rio laughs. “We need to be nice to our customers! What’s gotten into you?”

The small girl glares daggers at you. “You don’t think this guy is here to challenge you to some kind of ridiculous bet?”

Rio's sharp eyes bore into you, calculating the odds as she speaks. “If that’s the case, it will be as the customer wishes.”

You lower your open hand and shake your head. “No thanks. Perhaps another time.”

Mint tugs on the woman’s arm again. “C’mon, Rio! I want to show you this awesome amusement park I found! Grandpa won’t go with me, but you will, won’t you?”

Rio wears an uneasy smile, her eyes closed as she runs her fingers through her hair. “Okay, okay. You win, Mint. Let’s be fast, though, okay?”

“Yeah!” Mint jumps up, releasing her grip on the casino dealer’s hand as she raises a fist into the air. “This is gonna be great! Follow me!”

As the two girls leave you behind, you notice one of the high-definition displays light up with an image of Rio’s smiling face. The speakers call to you in her sweet, cheerful voice. “Have a lucky day!”

You allow a slight smile to cross your lips, reaching for your map and hoping that the advertisement would somehow grant you good fortunes. After all, a little bit of extra luck couldn't hurt, could it?

The bridge of the Freedom Survivor resembles the bridge of a science fiction starship rather than that of a cruise liner. Men and women in crisp officer’s uniforms employ laser-like focus on their holographic workstations, which display three-dimensional representations of the systems they control. Using special gloves, they interact with these projections in real-time, controlling everything from azimuth thruster propulsion, electrical grid distribution, generator turbine nominal output, and global positioning.

At the bridge's epicenter, a woman with long dark hair in a white, short-sleeved button-up blouse occupied a raised chair, massive arrays of displays and controls surrounding her. She examines the calm waters outside with unwavering eyes, instructing her officers to inspect the Survivor’s systems for any anomalies that might prevent her from leaving port on time.

You assume she must be the infamous Captain Augustine Swift you’ve heard so much about. Since you are standing to her rear, you have no idea what her face looks like, but her voice was authoritative and full of gravitas.

“Turbine three has been running hot at idle,” she addresses a young helmsman to the port side of where she was sitting, “so shut it down and raise turbine four and five's output by thirty percent to compensate. Call maintenance to order a full inspection and recalibration on the oil and coolant temp probes for abnormal spikes and relay any findings to me at once. Keep an eye on three's compressor vibrations during spool-down while you’re at it.”

“Aye, aye!” The sailor gave a stiff nod as he got to work.

Captain Swift turned to face starboard. “I’ve noticed that bow thruster four has been drawing more current than normal lately, so radio down to the engineering deck to have them send some technicians to look at the drive motor. The last thing we need is to lose precision maneuvering capabilities in the middle of the Hudson River.”

“I’m on it, ma’am!” Another officer confirms as she adjusts her headset.

The seat swivels with a slight whirring of electric motors, descending from its platform down to the bridge floor. The woman who commands the largest cruise liner the world has ever seen looks to pierce you with eyes like a starless night sky. Her bold, but refined arched eyebrows pinch together over her prominent roman nose as her lips shift to one side. After pushing herself up from her seat, she closes the distance to where you are standing with alarming strides. “Who the hell are you?”

It was her accusatory tone more than the question that caught you off guard. “Well—”

“More importantly, who gave you permission to enter my bridge?”

“I’m an auditor from the United Nations.” You straighten your back and temper your resolve. “Marie Rose, on behalf of Dr. Holovatsky, told me I was free to look around the ship.”

Augustine grimaced. “Were you told that you could look anywhere on the ship without regard for restricted areas?”

“I wasn’t told not to.”

“Don’t give me that semantic bullshit, Auditor,” the woman barked. “The bridge is off-limits to anyone not assigned to work here. That includes passengers, celebrities, and,” she paused to look you up and down, “auditors from the United Nations.”

The venom in her voice stung your ears. “Isn’t this a DOATEC vessel? Are you saying you have higher authority than Ms. Douglas?”

“When it comes to this ship, you’re damn right I do!” Captain Swift took a deep breath. “Do you have any idea how many souls are aboard this vessel?”

You do some quick internal calculations based on the maximum passenger occupancy of the ship alongside a full complement of crew members. “Six thousand or so, I'd wager.”

“At this moment, there are five thousand three hundred sixty-one souls aboard my ship, including one thousand seven hundred forty-four crew.” Augustine narrowed her eyes as she swept her arm toward the other people on the bridge. “Every choice I make, and every action taken as a result of those choices, is done with these lives weighing down on my shoulders. One ignored irregularity, one overlooked calculation, or a single dismissal of a weather alert can be enough to spell a catastrophe large enough to make the sinking of the Titanic look like a fishing accident.”

“That’s quite the burden,” you admit.

“It is.” Augustine takes your arm and walks you to the door. “So next time you see a sign that says ‘Authorized Personnel Only’, have some damn respect for those lives you might be putting in danger.”

Before you knew it, you were back in the hall. “And if I need access to these areas?”

Captain Swift stood in the door and leaned against the frame. “You come straight to me and make your case. I’m strict but reasonable. Now get the hell off my bridge, Auditor!”

The door slammed and you stood in the empty hall with your map in hand. Maybe you should try your luck somewhere else.

You’d overheard several idle conversations shared throughout the ship detailing the extraordinary Promenade Atrium Center located within the bow superstructure's forecastle, however seeing it in person was bewildering.

Artificial trees spread their limbs over lush grass so soft you’d swear it was the real thing and not some plastic attempt made by DOATEC to fool you. A multi-tiered alabaster fountain adorned with sculptures of playful dolphins spitting water from their snouts at one another occupied the park's center. Gorgeous wooden boardwalks bordered the grass, providing a walking path where passengers would stroll beneath the light of flickering street lamps reminiscent of the wrought-iron light posts from the early 1900s. However, as magnificent as all these elements were, they paled in comparison to the illusion of a night sky projected on the domed ceiling above, simulating a starry vista so vivid and lifelike you began to doubt that you were still standing aboard a cruise ship.

The magic could only stretch so far, though. Lining the edges of the boardwalk were designer boutiques stocked with swimsuits, accessories, and casual wear priced so high that it would make a pop star wince. Vending machines and food court diners filled the remaining gaps not eaten up by retail spaces, leaving the whole place feeling corporatized and far less enchanting.

Oblivious tourists milled about, drinking their franchise-brand extra large coffees while looking down at their mobile phones while they perused racks of clothing they couldn’t afford.

Perhaps this is why the woman with the short seafoam-colored hair caught your eye as your gaze washed over the room. While you were busy studying everyone else, she was busy examining you. Daring green eyes held a glimmer of suggestion, complimented by the fox-faced grin upon her glossy red lips. The attire she wore was as bold as her physique, with splashes of gilded turquoise peacocks embroidered into a long, pleated skirt that reached down to her ankles. Her upper body sported a Japanese-inspired kimono with matching hues of teal and gold, all tied together by a band of black fabric and a crimson rope which hugged her waist.

"My, my! Look who it is!" Her grin grows wider as she rests her painted fingertips at the corner of her mouth. “Feeling a bit lost, Auditor?”

You raise an eyebrow in her direction. “Not all those who wander are lost,” you quote Tolkein in an attempt to get a read on the woman in front of you.

“And not all that glitters is gold.” Unfazed, she laughs as she picks up on your reference, responding with another line from the old poem. She leans forward, her eyelids relaxing into a seductive stare. “Sometimes, glittering things are far more intriguing.”

“But not always.” You scoff at her presumptuous insinuation. “You want to tell me who you are?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” She chuckles as she stands up straight, brushing aside her hair to reveal a crimson streak hidden among the waves of turquoise. “You’re an investigator, aren't you? That’s what I’ve heard. Why don’t you figure it out.~”

This cat and mouse banter was growing stale. Using all the details from the brief exchange the two of you have shared, you do your best to throw together a hasty evaluation. “It’s obvious you’re not a passenger, but it’s just as obvious that you’re not high on the food chain in DOATEC’s corporate structure. Even more damning is that you’re here wandering the tourist shops during business hours, implying that you’re an aide or freelancer, not a salaried employee. Judging by your flashy attire and overconfident approach, you have an inflated ego but require others to acknowledge it for you to justify that bravado.”

Your brief profile inspires a spark, an amused flicker mixed with a tinge of something darker lurking beneath the surface. The grin she wore was a beautiful mask, but eyes can't lie if you know how to read them.

“Now you’re starting to sound like that uppity Doctor Holovatsky.” She crossed her arms, averting her gaze. "No fun at all."

“It’s not all bad,” you continue. “Based on the fact that you know who I am must mean you have someone’s trust at a very high level. In addition to that, you’re clever. Tolkien isn’t someone that comes up in idle conversation often.”

The woman’s eyes return to yours, though her face remains tilted to the side. “You’re not what I expected.”

Placing your hands in your overcoat pockets, you turn to leave. “Although fool’s gold isn’t valuable, it’s still quite beautiful when it glitters. Don’t let others dictate your worth.”

“Tamaki,” she announces from behind you. “My name is Tamaki Nakane. And you are?”

With a grin of your own, you shake your head. “You’re a clever girl. Figure it out.”

The wrinkled map you took from the guest services desk describes this area as ‘picturesque’ and ‘stunning’, but so far your stroll through the Forecastle Staterooms felt comparable to a middling resort.

Sure, it wasn’t cheap and it didn’t feel stale or lackluster, but compared to the rest of the ship these corridors lacked a distinguished atmosphere of time-bending wonder. Large oil paintings of famous global landmarks occupy the spaces separating numbered stateroom doors, covering the wall's bland vanilla paint beneath their gold-trimmed frames. Regal red carpet featured an elaborate cross-hatch of gilded threads, which shimmer beneath the even-spaced wall sconces' soft lighting. Passengers milled in and out of their cabins, some carrying luggage and others dressed in bright outfits, wearing eager smiles. Children wearing DOATEC branded shirts chased each other in the hall, weaving around the legs of their tired, but cheerful parents. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear you had stumbled into a popular theme park hotel, not one of the world’s most affluent cruise ships.

“Heyo!~" The question sails on the wings of a clear, musical voice. "Are you lost?”

You turn around, catching a glimpse of a gorgeous woman with eyes so green they felt like cuts from peridot gemstones. A rogue’s smile parts full, glossy pink lips as she stands up straight, tucking some of her wavy white-gold hair behind her right ear. Your gaze lingers on the ribbon of bold green dye that frames the left side of her face, a stunning splash of color which complements her apricot skin.

“No,” your words feel flat on your tongue as you hold up your map. “Just looking around.”

Her smile widens. “Yeah, except you don’t seem like you’re satisfied with what you’re looking at.”

“I don’t?” You chuckle, despite her accurate assumptions. “What makes you say that?”

A playful spark flickers in her eyes as she taps her temple with her forefinger. “Psychic powers, yo.”

Scoffing, you shake your head. “Fine, keep your secrets.”

The woman shrugs. “Suit yourself then. I’m not sure what you were expecting to see, but all you’re going to find here is a bunch of noisy families coming and going. Whatever conspiracy it is that you’re hunting isn’t hiding up here, you know.” She holds up a finger while raising arched eyebrows. “Although, there is this sweet arcade lounge a few decks below us. It's probably more your speed, I'd guess.”

“Why do you think I’m looking for anything specific?”

She turns her back on you with a dismissive wave. “I already told you. Weren't you listening? Some Auditor you are, huh…”

“What? Wait…!”

But, she had dissolved into the waves of people surrounding you, leaving you scratching your head in confusion. Who was she?

You look back down at the map in your hands, thinking it best to move on.

As you push your way inside a large pair of ornate double doors, you find yourself teleported into another world.

A domed hemispherical atrium, though dwarfed by the vessel's incredible main concourse, shines like a jewel under yet another spectacular crystal chandelier's twinkling luminance. The precision cut quartz refracts and scatters the light from miniature LED bulbs, a trick that paints brilliant starry constellations across the dome's interior curvature. Tapestries depicting world-famous port cities hosting the Freedom Survivor hang from the wall at your back, while balcony walkways span the dome's curves opposite them, a central glass elevator shaft splitting them down the center. Roman arches frame each set of doors that separate you from the most lavish accommodations the ship had to offer. If the circulating rumors mean anything, each luxury stateroom has more in common with a penthouse apartment than a hotel suite.

According to your map, these living spaces offer sweeping views of shimmering port cities and endless ocean vistas through large, floor-to-ceiling windows. Each suite boasts a full kitchen, dining area, multiple bedrooms, and private spas. The pamphlet goes on to mention a private VIP sundeck and exclusive Zack Kingdom casino access afforded to guests who can pay to stay in these over-the-top quarters, though as you look up from your map, you don’t see any signs outlining these access points.

Then, toward the room's aft-facing side, you notice a set of heavy, carved wooden doors with a red key card reader. Curious, you walk over to investigate and as you draw nearer your sharp eyes read the words ‘VIP ACCESS ONLY’ engraved in a silver plaque above the scanner.

“Figures…” You mumble under your breath as you shake your head.

“What does?”

Caught off guard by the reply, you spin to see a concierge approach you from behind a receptionist's desk.

“It’s nothing,” You fold up your map and return it to your coat pocket.

“Are you certain, sir?” The man’s cheerful tone grates your ears. “Do you have a VIP boarding pass? If so, I would be happy to offer you a guided tour.”

“What if I don’t?”

The concierge smiles, unfazed. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you if you don’t have the proper credentials, sir. Can I offer you directions to the ship’s other sundecks and swimming areas?”

“No need for that. I was more interested in seeing the culture of this place, not the amenities. What kind of guests do you normally serve here?”

The man gives a nod. “Passengers in this section usually consist of DOATEC VIPs and business partners, though many other celebrities prefer the extra privacy and often book these spaces as well.” He pauses to tilt his head, offering you an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I can’t give you any specifics, though. Discretion is our most valued accommodation.”

“I understand.” You try your best to sound civil.

“I’m happy to hear that, sir!” The concierge offers you a bow from his waist and retreats to his desk.

You reach for your map once again, heading for the exit to see what else you can find.

Taking another stairwell deeper into the ship’s bow section from the port-side promenade, you find yourself standing in a bland, featureless lobby. On its opposite side, you see a similar stairwell entrance leading to the starboard promenade, while three large central elevators offer access to the Port Douglas Virtual Aquarium, Infirmary, Promenade Atrium Center, and the other bow stateroom decks. Walking closer to the elevator controls, you notice two other buttons adjacent to special keycard readers labeled, "Engineering Deck - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY".

The lobby splits, becoming two wings on either side of the stainless elevators. Rows of faceless doors line the narrow halls as they follow the gentle curve of the bow's outer hull. Analyzing the gray carpet paths, you assume the two corridors must meet at the ship's nose where you expect to find another elevator shaft for easy guest access. While the accommodations here feel several degrees less extravagant than other areas, they offer convenient routes to many popular attractions, giving these rooms outstanding value for those who struggle with disabilities.

You stroll along the lackluster halls, passing the occasional passenger as they exit their cabin to enjoy exciting venues elsewhere on the vessel. As you pass by one such guest, you steal a peek into his room to satisfy your curiosity. A queen-sized bed butts against the exterior wall, while two large portholes on either side showcase New Jersey's metropolitan shores. Opposite the bed, a crimson sofa and matching coffee table overflow with open luggage, piles of laundry, and empty room service trays. Music streams from television speakers in the background, though you couldn’t tell where it was coming from before the door eases closed.

Reaching the hall's terminus, you find that you were correct in the assumption that it merged into the other wing’s corridor, a smaller arrow-shaped elevator lobby awaiting your arrival. As you press the call button, you retrieve the folded up map from your pocket to plan your next destination. You feel confident that nothing else in this area is worth investigating further, anyway.

You expected the Economy Staterooms would’ve been one of the most mundane areas on the ship. It’s all in the name, isn’t it? They are minimum, economical, accommodations meant to offer a budget friendly ride on the world’s most famous ship. Even the map in your hands doesn’t make excess effort to hype these meager quarters, using descriptors like ‘cozy’ and ‘efficient’ as their primary selling points.

However, the moment you leave the elevator, you discover something remarkable and unexpected. Your eyes widen, and a smile crosses your lips, despite the deep rooted skepticism in your bones.

Upbeat music fills the hall while young men and women form tight groups, their hands filled by red plastic cups and paper plates full of party snacks. Excited conversations ignite the air, loud enough to overcome the rhythmic hum of the Survivor’s massive turbine generators just a few decks below where you stood. Most of the stateroom doors were wide open as passengers wandered wherever they wished, mingling in a sort of block party fashion.

It was unlike anywhere else on the ship.

“Yo! I haven’t seen you around here before. Welcome to the hub!”

“The hub?” You repeat the young man’s words back to him, still processing what you’re seeing.

“Yeah, dude! Here.” He hands you a solo cup filled with some unholy concoction of energy drink and alcohol. “Come on, I’ll show you around. My name’s Grant. What’s yours?”

“Just call me Auditor. No offense kid, but I don’t--”

“Kid?” Grant laughs as he slaps you on the back as you start wandering the halls side by side. “Dude, I’m like twenty-one. Anyway, the hub is where you’ll find the sickest parties on the boat. Most of us down here couldn’t afford the fancy stuff all those snooty bitches in the upper decks get to enjoy, but we make it work in our own way.”

You take a hesitant sip of your drink, noting tones of Red Bull and coconut Rum. It was disgusting, but oddly invigorating at the same time. “And Ms. Douglas is fine with this?”

“Helena? Hell yeah! Well… mostly. If there are too many complaints, sometimes security will come to sort us out, but it’s not too bad. The generators are loud enough that people in nearby decks don’t complain much.”

You look inside an open cabin as the two of you pass by its doorway. People Grant’s age fill the windowless space, playing video games together while drinking and laughing. A small television screen blurs with vivid colors and flashing special effects which fade to black when the round ends. The loser shakes the winner’s hand while passing along his controller to someone new.

“Not everyone is a fan,” Grant continues, snatching your attention back from the gaming tournament. “That Marie Rose is constantly trying to shut us down! We’ve tried inviting her to come hang out, but she’s all about her stuffy corporate job. It’s a shame, too. She looks like she would have a blast down here.”

You hand your potent beverage back to Grant and offer him a half-smile. “Some people defy expectations. Keep doing that, and others will follow.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, man! Yeah!” Grant turns to walk back to his friends. “Come back sometime, Auditor. The hub always has room for one more!”

While walking through a narrow, white-walled corridor you notice the air feels thicker near the waterline, although you’re sure it's all in your head. The Survivor's relentless gas turbine generators' muffled whine drills into your ears from every direction, intensifying the feeling of walls closing in around you. Plain laminated floors beneath your feet and harsh overhead LED lighting evoke institutional atmospherics, a sharp contrast to your expectations of a cozy dormitory facility.

That claustrophobic feeling wears off when you see an open door to a crew member's room. Affixed to the bulkhead was a twin-sized bunk covered in messy blue sheets with an open laptop streaming a korean drama you didn't recognize. The wardrobe and desk combine into each other and mount to the wall in much the same fashion as the bed. Despite it being an interior-facing room, a false porthole window on the far wall glows with light diffused by the sea as a bluefish swam by.

“Must be one of the cameras installed on the ship’s outer hull,” you say under your breath.

“Um, excuse me.” A female voice sang into your ears.

Startled, you step back and bump into the wall, which in turn bounces you toward the passage's opposite side. “Hmph!” You groan, “These halls are too narrow.”

“Don’t I know it! Try living down here.” The brunette, with her hair tied high in a ponytail, gives you a quick inspection using sharp brown eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, though! I love my job. I think it's the best gig in the world! You know, I used to be a housekeeper in the states, but a year long contract and you get to see the world? Sign me up!”

“So how do you get cleaning carts down here?”

The girl’s laugh burst into a roar, “We’re the crew, so we live here and are expected to make our own beds. We’re on Ms. Douglas’ green schedule so even-numbered quarters do laundry on Mondays and Thursdays, and odd-numbered ones get their turn on Tuesdays and Fridays.”

“Green schedule?” Skepticism paints your voice sour. “On a ship like this, she thinks she’s going to help the environment?”

“Well, at least she’s doing something!” The woman’s eyebrows pinch her nose as she hardens her expression. “You think something like that is a waste of time if you can’t solve it all at once? What kind of attitude is that!?”

“No , that’s not what I mean,” you say, holding up an open palm. “I feel like it rings hollow when standing on the world’s largest cruise liner to worry about laundry schedules. How much waste does this ship already generate? It must be astronomical.”

The woman’s smile returns, though her gaze remains unwavering. “Maybe you should actually read that map a little closer. If you did, maybe you’d see how DOATEC’s cruise line is the cleanest in the world! Solar panels, water current scavenge turbines, on-board waste recycling, biodegradable plastics…” She stops to shake her head. “Well, I could go on, but you get the idea.”

“You seem pretty passionate about this.”

She delivers an enthusiastic nod. “Yeah, a lot of us crew members are! Though I haven’t, many of the others have worked for competing cruise lines and no one runs a ship quite like the Survivor. For those of us that love the ocean, it’s nice to know our boss cares too.”

“I’ll have to check into that.” You clear your throat, glancing down at your map. “Green schedule, huh.”

She placed a hand on her hip and tapped her foot a few times. “Well if you don’t mind, it is my day off and you’re blocking my door.”

Looking over your shoulder, you step aside as the woman disappears into her quarters. Feeling the walls growing tight again, you decide to explore somewhere else and head back the way you came.

The stairwell is narrow, and winds like a corkscrew within the communications tower’s core superstructure. Your footsteps echo down into the chasm below the steel mesh steps, their painted yellow edges warning you to mind your step. Industrial lights buzz alongside you, mounted to the dull white walls and progressing in regular intervals until you conquer the spiral's apex. A riveted bulkhead door greets you with unceremonious black letters labeling the space beyond as “Radio Control Operations”.

A robotic voice buzzes through an intercom as you enter a bleak room crammed wall to wall with desks and comms equipment. “Survivor, you are still clear for a seventeen-hundred hour departure. Disregard earlier dispatch.”

“Acknowledged, VTC. Departure at seventeen hundred hours confirmed.” A man wearing a white uniform scribbles down some notes next to his half-empty coffee mug. He taps the holographic screen of his workstation console, clearing his throat. “Captain Swift, this is Officer D’Souza in Comms. Seventeen hundred hour departure confirmed by Manhattan VTC.”

A pause signified the bridge's response in his headset.

“Aye, aye,” D’Souza’s voice was loud and clear. “Any changes will be relayed at once. Comms out.”

“Was there a delay?” You ask any one of the three control officers in the room.

A girl spun her chair to face you, her onyx hair bound into rows of dreadlocks which wrap back into a tidy bun. She removes her headphones to speak with you. “Another cruise ship was coming into port but they are expected to make landfall sooner rather than later.” A thick French accent gave weight to her words. “Manhattan VTS was just--”

One of her coworkers nudges her with a grunt.

“Oh, right.” She turns her back to ignore you. “Sorry, Monsieur Auditor. Captain Swift said that no communications are your concern.”

“I don’t see how they could hurt my investigation,” you interject.

“With all due respect, Auditor,” Officer D’Souza spoke up from across the room, “there isn’t anything DOATEC related that happens though open air comms. We strictly deal with transmissions to other ships and docks.”

“Well--”

“Furthermore,” D’Souza held up his finger. “Interfering with VTS operations in an active port is incredibly reckless! I’m sure you understand how vital it is that this remains a distraction-free area. Didn’t you read the signs in the stairwell? Authorized Personnel ONLY, Auditor. Have you been authorized to be here?”

“Dr. Holovatsky--”

“Annika? DOATEC executives have no authority over maritime operations! If you want to be here, you must first speak with Captain Swift. Now, unless you have some kind of emergency, I suggest you go back the way you came. Immediately.”

Turning back to the bulkhead door, you shake your head and consult your map. Perhaps coming here wasn’t the wisest choice.

As you leave the corporate elevator, stepping onto a sea of thin gray carpet and off-white walls, you find the DOATEC Administration Office lacks the rest of the ship’s grand design philosophy. The central lobby's wide foyer splits into rows of tinted glass doors, each bearing etched department names on their faces. Furthermore, the room's foremost wall, made of borderless glass panels, separates you from a large corporate conference table and the few dozen vacant luxury swivel chairs which surround it. Beyond them, massive windows offer a view of the Survivor’s bow section in the distance as she continues to cut her path into the Hudson River.

“Tournament Planning, Media Production, Public Relations,” You mutter each department name as you pass them by while the office occupants regard you with curious eyes, but none make moves to leave their desks and confront you. Strolling along uninterrupted, you continue reading, “Marketing, Finances, Human Resources, Legal…”

“Hey!”

A man dressed in a striking blue pinstripe suit wearing black sunglasses offers you a broad, energized smile. You see your reflection in the dark lenses on his face, but his eyes remain hidden behind them.

“I was wondering if I’d see you around, Auditor! Never expected to find you up here, though.” He extends a hand toward you, still beaming. “The name’s Zack Bridges.”

You accept his hand, giving it a firm grasp before returning your arm to your side. “You’re the one who won the third Dead or Alive Tournament, aren’t you?”

He gives you a big thumbs up. “You know it, A! I see my reputation precedes me, huh? Always happy to meet a fan!”

You dust off your jacket, shaking your head. “I’d heard it was a technicality and that the real winner never showed up to claim her title.”

“A win’s a win, my man!” Zack seemed unfazed by your lackluster response. “Say, you look like you need to unwind. Have you checked out the Zack Kingdom Casino? Maybe drop a few zeds at the bar in La Verseau?”

“Zeds?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah!” Zack reaches into his pocket to show off a shiny silver coin with a ‘Z’ embossed on its surface. “Zack Dollars! You aren't still carrying around regular cash, are ya?”

You pull out your wallet and glance down at the dollar bills tucked inside. “Yeah, so?”

“So? SO?!” Zack laughs. “My man, you gotta keep up! That money’s no good here. You need to stop by the Guest Services and convert those stacks of lettuce into zeds if you wanna buy anything on this ship!”

“Are you serious?”

“Don’t I look serious, A?”

It is a question you struggle to find an answer for as you return your wallet to its home. “Well…”

“It’s like this, man. Helena’s ship travels all over the planet, and there’s a lot of different types of stacks floating around out there. You got your dollars, your euros, your yen, your pesos, blah, blah, blah. DOATEC wants to keep things simple for its guests. Are you the type of guy that likes doing a bunch of math in your head to figure out exchange rates on the fly just so you can buy a hot dog?”

“Uh--”

“Didn’t think so, A! No one is! So, why not trade in all that annoying math for a simple, satisfying, and shiny roll of zeds? You want a refreshing drink? Easy. You want a fast meal? No sweat! Looking to buy a souvenir pair of Z-Shades? You got it!”

Zack plants his hand on your shoulder and begins walking back toward the elevator doors as he continues talking. “I’m telling you, man, you’re missing out. I can’t believe Marie didn’t spill the details when you got here, A. Get it sorted out and I’ll catch you on the flipside.”

Before you knew it, you found yourself standing back inside the elevator, wondering what had happened.

Assuming you would find a cafeteria equivalent to those found in large hospitals or corporate campuses, you are pessimistic that the DOATEC staff mess hall will offer anything worth writing home about. Yet, as you push your way inside a set of red double doors, you find it necessary to re-evaluate your preconceptions.

Though the dining area was massive, every inch glowed with romantic charm reminiscent of legendary ocean liners the world has long forgotten. Galley floors consisting of polished hardwood laminate wow you with their stunning, rich golden-brown finish. Elegant iron sconces line the cream-colored walls, casting soft light upon the round-top tables spread throughout the space. A large buffet line occupies the mess hall's center, featuring a king’s feast of various meal options, filling the massive hall with savory aromas of fresh baked dinner rolls, sizzling grilled steaks, crisp salad offerings, and rich pastry desserts. Gossiping voices fill the air as friends and coworkers discuss the banalities of life aboard the Survivor while clearing their plates.

Past the buffet line, you observe a similar dining room layout, but also a set of spiraling staircases which lead through the vaulted ceiling overhead. Ever curious, you traverse the steps, following other crew members to discover an unbelievable outdoor dining patio beneath a gorgeous glass panel and steel beam canopy. The ‘sail’ of windows arches toward the stern superstructure which towers over you like a silent colossus. Beyond the railing, at the upper deck's outer perimeter, you watch the New Jersey shoreline scroll along while Survivor continues her lazy northbound trajectory.

“--way nicer than the starboard hall. Did you hear about the mess the engineering guys made over there last week?”

You stop to listen in on a conversation shared by two deck hands sitting nearby.

“I know! I heard that Marie Rose even went to go see Jenkins about it personally. I swear that girl acts like she’s responsible for every glass of spilled milk on this boat.” The other deckhand responded to the first with a shug as she held up her burger. “It’s not really that bad over there, though. I like how it feels more relaxed. Plus, there’s a better view.”

“Pssh,” The first man scoffed with a wave of his hand. “For now, maybe. You’d rather look at what’s left of Manhattan’s Financial District over the Jersey Shore? It’s so depressing over there.”

“I don’t care,” the woman smiled. “Anything’s better than Jersey.”

As the two begin to laugh, you decide to continue your exploration somewhere else. Maybe you’ll come back another time for a bite to eat, but for now, there’s so much else to see.

As you exit the stairwell at the deck closest the the ship’s keel, the first thing that greets you is the encessant droning of the massive gas turbine engines which supply power to the ship. However, the high-pitched whine of the turbines is dulled by layers of thick, water-tight bulkheads made of heavy steel plates.

You stroll down the wide open walkway, it’s turquoise floors marked with striped caution tape to designate safe traffic lanes for workers and industrial machines as they keep the vital systems of the Survivor’s power grid in tip-top shape. Along the walls, enamel placards offer directions toward the various engine rooms.

As you draw near the corridor leading to Turbine #3, you find yourself in a maintenance bay where several men were hard at work coming and going into the turbine housing area. Though they were clearly moving with purpose, they also moved with caution. No tools littered the workbenches or toolbox tops, and heavier fixtures were hung in organized cutouts mounted to the walls.

On a nearby cart, blueprints for one of the aft azimuth thrusters lays unfurled to reveal several inspection points, marked by post-it notes covered in scribbles made by the engineering team.

You raise your eyebrows at the strange propeller design depicted in the techichal drawing. Each azimuth pod seemed to be fit with a pair of counter-rotating propellers, one larger four-bladed rotor, and a smaller five-bladed counter-rotor. The Blades of the props seemed to have some kind of cutouts in them, where they would pass through one another, though the pitch of the blades were angled in opposite directions. Underneath this portion of the drawing, a note reads, “Port-side De Bay CRP rotor assembly inspection due at next maintenance interval.”

Beyond the tool-filled shop, you continue following the blue-green pathways, where several steel boxes humm with incredible amounts of high voltage electricity. Wokers with clipboards stop their inspections to regard you with suspicious eyes, no doubt wondering who you were and why you were there, but none of them say a word. The eair grows thick with the tense realization that you don’t belong here.

You’d rather not wait for them to raise their concerns, so you duck inside the nearest doorway, however, you get the feeling you’ve only made things worse as you find yourself in the heart of Turbine #3’s control room.

Sonar systems offer the occasional ping to confirm nearby ships and terrain is at a safe distance from the hull while touch-screen monitors display live feeds of all the turbine engine’s vital control stats, though all of them appear to be reading null values at the moment. Next to the manual override controls, a row of color-coded telephones were affixed to the panelling, labelled ‘Bridge’, ‘Comms’, ‘Exec’, and ‘Cargo’. Two engineers in coveralls the same color as the floor speak to each other in terms that might as well have been Greek to your untrained ears.

“We need to test the number two main bearing oil temp probes.” The taller of the two men rubs is forehead with the sleeve of his uniform as he speaks. “Turbine three is powered down and ready for inspection on the lines while we run the calibration checks.”

You reach for the door to enter into the next bulkhead, doing your best to be inconspicuous on your tour.

“Where in the hell do you think you are going?” Someone’s oil stained hand slaps the door in front of you. “Who do you think you are? I can’t let you go in there!”

A sinking feeling grips your chest. “I’m doing an audit of the ship.”

“Yeah, well do you read, numb-nuts?” He jabbed his finger toward to an overhead sign that read, ‘PPE REQUIRED BEYOND THIS POINT’. “Hearing protection? I don’t see any in those pretty little ears of yours.” The shorter bearded man stares at you with unrelenting brown eyes.

“Look, I’m just trying to do my job…” You attempt to explain, but you realize how it sounds the moment the words leave your lips.

“Did Swift send you down here to bust my balls? The port authority said we were clear for normal operations and there’s no audit due for another three months. I don’t know who you think you’re fucking with, but you need to get the hell out of my engine room. Street clothes don’t belong down here, anyway. Least you could’ve done was snag a set of bibs first! Fucking amateur. Now get lost before I call security to deal with you.”

For now, you judge it best to follow the sour-faced man’s orders. Sometimes, its easier to seek permission than forgiveness.

Spacious rows of luxurious leather couches and recliners sit on deep gray carpets, their subtle colors designed to feel neutral against the spectacular view outside. Glass panels wrap the observation deck, encompassing every wall except the aft bulkhead that hosts the elevators and stairwells. Because of this, scenic-minded guests can enjoy a breathtaking 270-degree view of the ship’s illustrious surroundings, regardless of where they stood.

Despite that fact, you shake your head in disgust as you approach the starboard windows. Guests lounging in the furniture’s embrace wrap themselves in pillows while staring down at their mobile phones and laptop screens, oblivious. A few wander the pages of various novels, choosing to lose themselves in another world instead of appreciating the one they live in.

You cross your arms, straighten your posture, and take a deep breath as your eyes trace over the outside world. On your left, you spot the Empire State and Chrysler Building's distant silhouettes reaching skyward from their roots in Midtown. Looking eastbound, you navigate the crowded shoreline of Hudson Square until it merges into Battery Park City’s sprawling edifice. Tired high-rise housing and shopping centers attempt to give the illusion of prosperity despite New York’s deep, ugly scars. Above all, the breathtaking backbone of the Financial District, the iconic World Trade Center’s twin towers, dwarf all surrounding structures within their enormous shadow.

This famous metropolitan sprawl was the crown jewel of the western world. It was at the heart of every famous blockbuster action movie, the centerpiece of countless musical endeavors, and an icon of prosperity and opportunity unrivaled across the globe. At one time, it was the yardstick all other cities measured themselves against.

It was.

Now, it merely pretends to be those things. Ravaged by foreign invasions, martial lockdowns, economic collapse, and organized crime, these shiny spires sparkle only for the delusional and the ignorant. Looking beyond them, seeing the trash-filled alleys and graffiti-stained projects, the ugly truth becomes undeniable: this city is a swamp monster wearing lipstick, hoping for one last kiss.

A throat clears as someone approaches. “Interesting, isn't it?”

“What’s that?” You're curious if this stranger sees the ogre or the beauty queen.

“The purpose of it all. Life, cities, here, there, just all of it. To exist, and for those buildings to be standing there.” The suave man folds his arms back as he comes to stand at your side. “It could’ve been a million different structures staring back at us, but it's these. For that matter, it could be a million different people, but in fact it's you and I. The chances of it all is one in ten to the sixtieth power.”

He pauses to glance your way with eyes so dark they steal light from the room. “Take a pair of dice for instance. Say you roll them and they land on double sixes. Now, you roll them sixty more times and every time they land on double six, same as before. Those are the odds that you and I stand here, in this place, and have this conversation.”

You blink trying to keep up with his math. Tilting your head, you offer a dry smile. “You've got quite the perspective, huh.”

“There are infinite possibilities out there. One of which could be that these buildings before us are no longer there, or never existed in the first place.” He turns his back to New York, “It’s all very interesting isn’t it? Your job here. Everyone else's happenstance here. The most likely run-in's you'll have on this ship, dare I say in this room, will be once in a lifetime opportunities.”

As you process his message, the swamp monster starts to seem a little prettier after all. You bring a hand to your jawline to stroke your chin as you attempt to understand why.

The man offers a nod, then walks toward the elevators. “Well, I’ll see you around, Auditor. Or maybe I won't.”

Hyper pink and radical lime neon lights trace the arcade's perimeter, racing each other along the ceiling's edges until they combine opposite the room's entrance. At their terminus, a crash of cosmic colors, tubes bending and twisting, become iridescent letters which spell “DOA Adventure Park” in the wall's center. Jutting from the Survivor's bow superstructure, the "wings" housing this radical playground feature dark tinted windows spanning the foremost walls' entirety, keeping the bright sunlight outside from ruining the 80’s aesthetic. It's a trick that you appreciate, as you prefer the honesty found in dark corners such as these.

Industrial synthwave music overpowers the ever-present din of hundreds of passengers. Popular arcade games light the air ablaze with intense, competitive energy. Go-karts rip their way over a wide track encompassing the park's full length, spiking the atmosphere's buzz with their high-pitched electronic whine.

You feel your steps grow lighter as you weave through groups of friends, some of them clutching giant stuffed animals or oddball trinkets that will no doubt sit and collect dust when their charm expires. Teens rush from enclosed arenas, stripping off gear from the Laser Tag matches they'd lost while laughing at how “they’ll get ‘em next time.”

Your catch sight of cutting-edge driving simulators, which all appear synchronized together into one, extreme virtual race. Action-packed feeds fill every pixel on floor-to-ceiling monitors, depicting scenes of collapsing buildings, epic explosions, and high-flying jumps. Onlookers watch with bated breath, hoping for their friends to cross the finish line first.

You wander from the starboard-side, through the arcade's bustling heart toward the Adventure Park's opposite wing. Massive trampolines and obstacle courses for the ship's most dynamic thrill-seekers fill sections enclosed by safety nets and gym pads. UV lights ignite fluorescent orange, blue, green, and violet painted accents, giving the courses a psychedelic feel strong enough to give seasoned hippies traumatic flashbacks.

If anywhere on the Survivor dared to ensnare you within its manufactured ambiance, it was this place. However, you realize your duty is bigger than reliving the gaming thrills recalled from youthful memories forged in arcade lobbies. You retrieve your map and look for your next target, but the idea lingers that you will be returning someday soon.

This facilitiy's most prominent feature is the thick silence that fills the open lobby. Leaving the elevator car, you find regal red and gold carpets, similar to those found covering the ship's other public spaces, paving the way toward rows of convention center doors.

While you wander the empty halls, you peek into open meeting room doors to see massive ballroom-sized convention areas. Rows of tables covered in immaculate white linens and fine china place settings await the arrival of their prestigious guests. Vibrant floral centerpieces arranged in each round-top's center give the room's formality a splash of rebellious color.

Leaving the central hub and its magnificent banquet halls, you venture into the Event Center's starboard wing. Similar to the bow superstructure's many wings, these stern decks feature halls full of huge plate-glass windows, the World Trade Center filling your view as you continue your investigative expedition.

Numerous doors opposite the exterior-facing windows lead into smaller conference rooms, though they're still vast compared to what you'd see in an average hotel. According to what you've heard, DOATEC uses these venues to host pro gaming tournaments, weddings, anime expos, and even the occasional high school prom if the districts' budget can afford such lavish amenities. Helena has made it clear her focus has shifted to entertainment and cultural events, and that's where she insists she wants to lead the company to inspire the future. You suspect this is a half-truth, but at least the wide range of events hosted here allows you to see how DOATEC interacts with the general population.

Reaching the end of the wing, imposing white doors featuring round porthole windows block you from progressing any further. Next to the doors, a keycard reader glares at you with insidious red LED eyes. A sign overhead reads “DOATEC Employees Only, STARBOARD MESS”.

Ever curious, you approach the doors and steal a peek through the small window, seeing a set of yellow barriers blocking the path on the other side next to “CAUTION: Wet Floor” signs.

“Kitchen’s closed! Didn’t you-- Oh. You’re not one of the crew, are you?”

You turn to see a tall woman holding an aluminum clipboard. The pristine white uniform she wore was a striking contrast to the beautiful, rich brown tone of her dark skin. Eyes like obsidian bore into you beneath pressed brows. She points at you with her ink pen, lowering the documents to her side. “You’re that Auditor everyone’s been talking about, aren’t you?

“I am. And you are?”

“Chief Maintenance Officer Amala Coleman.” She offers her name with pride, but her expression toward you never softens. “If you want to check out the mess halls, you should visit the port-side. Starboard Mess is closed until we sort out… a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

Amala lowers her pen and places her hands on her hourglass hips. “The kind that doesn’t involve you.”

“I was told that--”

“Look, Auditor-guy, I think you’re alright, but I’m not risking my job to satisfy your curiosity. I worked my ass off to get where I am, and I like it that way. If you don’t, then go talk to Ms. Douglas about it. I promise, it isn’t as exciting as you think it is.”

“Not even a hint?” You offer her your most disarming grin. “I’ll keep it under my hat, I promise.”

Amala scoffed, shaking her head while returning her focus to her clipboard. “You think you’re something special, don’t you?”

“Aren’t we all, Ms. Coleman?”

“Just… Ugh.” She pulls a keycard from her pocket and brushes you aside so she can access the door. After the card reader lights turn green, she crosses the threshold, but turns to face you before the door can slide closed. “You’re just like those damn engineers! Thinking you can just go do whatever you want, making messes on the floor, cracking tables over disagreements.”

As the door eases shut, she offers you a sly wink through the window that now separates you. “There’s your hint.”

With those parting words she disappeared from view, leaving you wondering what you missed.

“Auditor! Auditor!” A deckhand races toward you, his freckled cheeks flushed. As he draws near, the young lad leans down to lean on his knees and catch his breath.

“Are you all right?” You raise an eyebrow. “Is there some kind of emergency?”

“Emergency?” A heavy Boston accent colors his tired voice. He stands up to wipe his face on his sleeve while handing you an envelope with his other hand. “Nah, it’s nothin’ like that. I’ve been lookin’ all over the place for ya! You have any idea how hard it is to hunt down one guy on a boat this size? It’s fuckin’ hard, lemme tell ya.”

You examine the white envelope which bears the DOATEC logo above uppercase letters spelling, “Intelligence Office”. On the paper's center, the title “Auditor” in beautiful cursive handwriting stares back at you.

“What's this?”

“It ain’t open, is it? How should I know!” The boy shrugs, tossing you an orange vest with a white number on the front. “I was told you’d need this, too. Smell ya later, Auditor!

Ripping open the paper sleeve, you blow a sharp breath into the envelope to make retrieving the note inside that much easier. Unfolding the message in your hands, you narrow your eyes and read over its contents.

“Auditor,

Every month Captain Swift selects crew and DOATEC staff members at random to test life preservers and lifeboats. Today is lucky day for you. Since I’m certain you want complete DOATEC experience, I am happy to say you can be part of this training also.

Your vest has number, then you sit on dot with same number in lifeboat. Is simple exercise, but a memorable experience. I would not want to deprive you of such things.

Sincerely,
Annika Holovatsky, PsyD
Chief Intelligence Officer”

Enclosed with the note was a small map outlining a route, along with a time the exercise would take place. You would need to hurry if you want make it on time for the boarding.

A narrow path wraps the perimeter of deck two, providing a scenic venue for those in search of places to stretch their legs and escape from the ceaseless crowds. Following this trail, you approach the ship's midsection, the path in front of you leading to an exterior section bordering the main hold. Salty sea air fills your lungs as the bite from the cold breeze stings your nose, despite the best efforts of the bright midday sun to warm your cheeks. The dark steel plates of the massive industrial cargo storage facility cause you to wonder if it shares some symbolism with DOATEC itself. Does the mega-corporation’s heart resemble the cold black center of its flagship headquarters, or are Ms. Douglas's intentions as sincere as she claims?

In front of you, a large gathering of crew blocks your path. Hundreds of people stand in line, all wearing bright orange life-preservers and the same dissatisfied frown upon their faces. As you don your orange vest to join their ranks, you can’t help but notice that no one seems happy here.

The closer you come to boarding, you realize why. Crammed inside the double-decker lifeboat, people sat shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, their knees forced together. Inside the boat the air was much warmer, bordering on uncomfortable and stale by comparison to the chill outside. The plexiglass windows on the craft remain sealed, converting the fiberglass vessel into an improvised greenhouse.

On your heat-inducing vest's front side, you see the number 23 staring at you from within a white square patch. Squeezing through the rows of legs, you navigate the lower deck's second row from the front and take your seat. When the time came for roll call, deck officers announce numbers one by one, followed by a grumbling crew memeber's confirmation, ensuring the occupancy of all seats.

“Number 23?” The officer shouts.

You raise your arm with a firm, “Here!” as all the others had done.

However, this time a moment of silence hangs in the air.

“Wait," the officer continues. "Number 23, who are you?”

“I’m the Auditor from the United Nations. I was told to participate in the training by Dr. Holovatsky. Is there a problem?”

The burly sailor groans, slapping a palm to his face. “She’s done it again! Every damn time…”

One of the other officers laughs as you cross your arms. You get the sense that the clever doctor, who no doubt knew how miserable the experience would be, is somewhere laughing at your expense.

The training dragged on as all 450 unlucky crew members who ‘won’ their place on the lifeboat announced their presence. Once satisfied, the officers running the exercise gave the signal for everyone to return to their stations and resume normal shifts.

At last, when fresh air brushes your back, you're able to take a relaxing breath. One time was plenty when it came to sharing a boat with a crowd that size, although you'd prefer it to the alternative if disaster were to strike.

The elevator issues a polite chime as the car comes to a rest inside the heart of the ship’s stern.

“Deck 4,” a woman’s pre-recorded voice announces from the control panel speaker.

Sliding open, the doors reveal an open lobby which splits into a maze of hallways. From what you can tell by consulting your map, the rooms here are purpose-built residences for DOATEC staffers and executives, comparable to a small studio apartment.

Wandering down the halls, you find that the center ‘blocks’ of the complex seem larger than the accommodations that line the exterior halls, and you wonder if prominent figures in the DOATEC hierarchy occupy these spaces. Yet, since the clustered central rooms have no windows or exterior access, you suspect that most executives would demand luxurious housing featuring large portholes and spacious living areas. Perhaps these faceless walls are home to the unfortunate staff after all.

As your imagination tries to conjure what the inside of these residences look like, you encounter a blond man in a brown leather jacket heading the opposite direction. Chewing a toothpick and wearing a tired look in his slate-colored eyes, he tosses an old baseball from one hand to the other.

The casual way he avoids looking in your direction is asynchronous with the way he slows his pace. You suspect he is studying you from his peripheral vision, a trait you’ve seen from others with professional backgrounds in government intelligence agencies.

“Excuse me,” you offer as you come to a stop in the hall. “Could I ask you some questions?”

The man stops tossing the baseball and reaches up to remove the toothpick from his lips. “Depends on the questions.”

“Fair enough.” You relax your expression, attempting to put the man at ease. “I’m an auditor with the United Nations and I’ve been assigned to investigate DOATEC. Since you’re here, can I assume you’re an employee?”

“Sure, you can.” The man’s expression remains calm and unreadable.

“Based on that assumption, could you tell me more about the living conditions of these residences?”

“No.”

“No?” You raise an eyebrow at him. “Why not?”

“Anything I tell you would be filtered through a lens of second-hand perception.” He gestures to an adjacent door with his baseball. “For example, if I say these spaces are a bit cramped, you could assume the living conditions were poor. But, if I said they are elegant and well-designed you could assume the opposite.”

“What about a tour then?” You suggest.

He shakes his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that either. It would be irresponsible of me. You think you’re the only one doing investigations around here, Auditor?”

“What?” You smile, despite the serious implication. “What sort of investigation is DOATEC conducting?”

For the first time, the mysterious man offers you a smile. “I said you could assume I was an employee. I didn’t say you were right.”

He resumes walking toward the elevators, resuming the tossing of his baseball. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again. The ship’s big, but not as big as you might think.”

Standing in the empty hall you recommence your tour, but the man’s unsettling insinuation raises red flags in your mind. Though the situation's surface seems straightforward, you remind yourself that the big fish like hiding where the light can't reach them. You need to head to deeper waters if you want to find the truth.