Massive Disaster IX
Massive Disaster IX
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Zedd slouched forward, complaining elbows digging into the workbench as the dim blue glow of his omnitool flickered against the dull light overhead. Wires, cracked circuit boards, tools scattered stared back at him in the mess of his workshop.
It was chaos, yeah, but it worked for him.
Everything had its place, even if it didn’t look like it.
The mess mapped his projects better than any plan ever could.
On the left, the battered husk of a Devlon Worker Bee Mk III drone twitched faintly as he poked at its wiring. It looked half-dead, the kind of junk even scrap rats would pass on, which made sense given it was at least seven years out of date. But he could see through the mess to what it could be. potential, just waiting for the right hands.
His hands.
“Stubborn lil dickhead, aren’t you?” His voice came out muffled under the snug goggles perched over his face. No reply, obviously, but the faint whir of its diagnostics felt like it was talking back anyway.
He couldn’t tell if it was mocking him or just as tired as he was.
The goggles’ hud flickered to life, syncing smoothly to his omnitool. blue-tinted readouts crawled across his lenses, pulsing faintly in time with the drone’s gutted power core. Zedd tilted his head, watching the patterns. something felt off there, but he couldn’t pin it yet. He reached for a salvaged regulator nearby, its edges worn smooth by years of use. His hands moved on autopilot, the motions familiar enough to let his brain wander.
The plan wasn’t to just patch the drone up and call it a day.
Nah, that’d be boring.
This thing needed to be better—faster, smarter, built for more than what it was ever meant to handle. When he could tweak the core right—not if, when—maybe mix in some of Devlon’s hive programming, it’d save him hours down the line.
Delegation, right?
Let the bot handle the grunt work. He had bigger things waiting.
His gaze slid sideways to the pile of emitters tangled with wiring on his right. kinetic barriers, or what was supposed to be. They were the kind of crap designed to make civilians feel safe but never actually worked when it counted. Way too much power wasted trying to protect everything instead of focusing on what actually mattered. Not that popular for a reason, for anyone outside of basic no-brain civs.
The inefficiency made his teeth itch.
He flipped the goggles up onto his forehead, leaning back to rub at the bridge of his nose.
His eyes stayed locked on the emitters, though, like glaring at them hard enough might fix their stupid design flaws. “Gotta get you sorted sooner than later,” he muttered, mostly to himself. his thoughts jumped ahead, already picking at solutions. The shields didn’t need to cover everything—just the essentials.
Head, chest, thighs, maybe.
Saving power was better than trying to tank every hit.
Sure, it left him open in places, but if someone managed to tag him in the shin? “That’s on me for standing still like a dumbass.”
His omnitool beeped softly, and he tapped in a quick note without looking. Stagger recharge cycle. Balance generator load. Stop frying the damn thing.
It wasn’t the first time he’d told himself something like that, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
His eyes flicked to the corner of the garage where his recently purchased half-wrecked sports car sat under the weak glow of the flickering light. Mr. Jaxon was nearly in tears when I transferred the credits over, he thought with a snort, thinking of the recently married couple one neighborhood over. Guess Mrs. Jaxon finally put her foot down after a bad financial decision merged with a bad driving decision.
The dented frame still looked fast somehow, even dead as it was. He hadn’t touched the engine yet—should’ve, but hadn’t.
Instead, half his morning had gone to sketching out upgrades he didn’t have the time or parts for. Turbochargers, hybridized drives, maybe even a kinetic barrier system just to make it into a juggernaut if he needed to.
Why not?
He snorted softly at his own thoughts, his fingers tapping out a rhythm against the bench that synced up with the faint hum of the drone’s power core. The car wasn’t even close to running, but the ideas wouldn’t leave him alone. His brain kept pitching stuff like it had nothing better to do.
Jump jets.
The words hit like a punch out of nowhere, making his fingers pause mid-tap.
He let the thought sit there for a second, rolling it around in his head before testing it out loud.
“Jump jets.”
He glanced toward the shelves along the back wall, squinting through the weak light. Parts from old mining exosuits were shoved into uneven stacks, collecting dust like they were part of the decor. Most of it wasn’t worth the effort, but… maybe.
With the right mods, he could throw together something light enough to use for short bursts.
Nothing crazy.
Just enough to get vertical when he needed it.
His fingers twitched like they wanted to grab something, but his attention slipped instead to another half-baked idea circling his head: software. He could link it all together—drone, barriers, hell, maybe even the car. One system pulling everything into a neat, usable package.
Maybe throw in a VI, something basic, to run it all.
Yeah, that’s what I need, he thought, the sarcasm sharp enough to cut. “A little voice nagging me about what I’m doing wrong,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching like it couldn’t decide whether to smile or frown.
Still, the thought stuck. It had a spark to it, something too solid to let go of even as he leaned back over the drone and flicked his soldering iron back on. “One thing at a time,” he reminded himself, more out of habit than actual conviction.
The solder hissed as it hit the connection, a thin trail of smoke curling upward. The drone hummed to life under his hands, trembling just enough to let him know its systems were spinning up like they should. Zedd smirked, wiping a streak of grease off his cheek with the back of his wrist. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
He glanced over at the sportscar again, parked like some wounded animal in the corner of the garage. The crumpled hood caught the faint overhead light, gleaming like a challenge. There were a hundred ways to mess with it, a hundred problems waiting to be solved, and for now, they’d all have to wait.
The drone was done, the barriers still needed work, and his brain was already kicking around half a dozen ideas about how to make the jump jets actually fly.
Clink.
The faint sound of a tool hitting the workbench barely registered. His focus was tangled up in the logistics of energy dispersion, heat regulation, and how to keep the jets from cooking the user alive mid-flight. His goggles had slipped down around his neck at some point, and he was running his thumb along the edge of the drone’s reinforced frame when the voice cut through his thoughts.
“You gonna light yourself on fire or what?”
Zedd’s head snapped up, the voice smooth and too familiar, tinged with just enough teasing to make him roll his eyes before he even looked. Kira leaned against the doorframe like she owned the place, arms crossed and a smirk on her face sharp enough to draw blood.
He groaned, though the hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “Don’t you knock?”
“Door’s open,” she shot back, pushing off the frame with that lazy kind of confidence that was all hers. “That’s basically an invitation.”
“Yeah, well, next time I’ll put up a sign. No Kira allowed.”
“You’d miss me,” she said, the smirk widening as she glanced around the room, her eyes landing on the sportscar. She let out a low whistle, shaking her head like she couldn’t decide if she was impressed or horrified. “What’s this? You buy this piece of junk, or did it crash through your garage on its own?”
Zedd snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Ten credstacks. Worth every single one.”
“Ten…” Kira raised an eyebrow, the disbelief plain on her face. “Even for a roadster, that’s a bad call.”
“So, like every project I start.”
“Uh-huh.” She wandered closer, her eyes flicking over the mess of tools and parts on the workbench. She picked up a battered soldering iron, twirling it between her fingers like it was a toy. “You ever think about working on one thing at a time?”
Zedd tilted his head, pretending to think about it. “Nah. Too boring. Chaos keeps me sharp.” And the money coming in.
“Funny. Chaos usually just blows people up.” Her tone stayed light, but something flickered across her face—quick, faint, almost too subtle to catch.
Concern.
Weird, coming from her.
It threw him off, just for a second. Kira didn’t usually hang out in his garage like this. Holo-calls, sure, but being here, in person, made the air feel heavier somehow.
Different. Awkward, even, now that she’d been showing up more lately.
It wasn’t like when Adele or Devraj had tagged along, either.
Without them, it just felt… tense.
“Worried about me, Baby Blue?” Zedd let the grin soften just enough to take the edge off his words, leaning back further and letting his arms drape over the chair’s armrests.
Kira snorted, not missing a beat. “Someone has to be.” She twirled the soldering iron once more before pointing it at him like a warning. “Especially since you’re apparently one misstep away from turning this place into a firework.”
“Be one hell of a show, though,” Zedd said, not quite looking at her, his smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Bet you’d be front row.”
“Hard pass.” Kira set the soldering iron down with a click that echoed sharper than it needed to. Her arms crossed, her expression landing somewhere between a glare and one of those looks teachers used when they wanted to roast you in front of the whole class. “Seriously, though. Slow down. Or, like, focus on one thing before you accidentally blow a hole in the wall.”
He shrugged, flicking a glance at the drone like it had an answer to give. “Can’t help it. Too many ideas bouncing around.”
“Try harder,” she said, dry as hell, though there was a glint of humor there, buried under the scolding. Her eyes swept over the room again, landing on the sportscar like it had personally offended her. “So, what’s the plan with that? You gonna fix it up, or is it just here to flex on your other junk?”
“Fixing it,” Zedd said, letting the grin grow a little. “Eventually. Might mod it, too.”
“Mod it,” Kira repeated, raising an eyebrow like he’d just suggested putting wings on it. “Coming from the guy who can’t touch anything without turning it into a walking hazard.”
“It’s a talent,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the bench. “Besides, wasn’t it you who went full missile during training? Don’t throw shade when you’re out there trying to become an actual projectile.”
“It’s called practice,” she shot back, her smirk creeping back to life. “You should try it sometime.”
“Don’t need it.” Zedd’s grin widened like the smartass he was. “Natural talent.”
“Uh-huh,” Kira said, rolling her eyes but still somehow failing to hide the twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Natural talent doesn’t stop explosions.”
“Yeah, maybe not.” He looked back at the drone, his fingers idly tapping the bench. “But where’s the fun in that?”
Her laugh caught him off guard, light and quick, like she hadn’t meant for it to happen. He glanced up again, catching the way her smirk softened, slipping closer to something real before she shook her head and brushed a strand of blue hair out of her face. She moved closer, leaning against the edge of the workbench, her movements slower than usual.
“You’re impossible,” she said, voice low but laced with just enough exasperation to sell it.
“You love it,” Zedd said before he could think better of it. The words slipped out too easily, and he almost regretted them.
Almost.
Kira’s eyes narrowed, the smirk snapping back into place like armor. “Careful, Victors. Keep that up, and I might think you actually like having me around.”
“Maybe I do,” he said with a shrug, keeping his tone casual even as his brain started running the math on whether that had sounded too much like flirting. “Or maybe I’m just too busy to kick you out.”
She snorted, but there was a flicker of pink on her cheeks as she turned her focus to the kinetic barriers. “But where’s the fun in that?”
“Fun,” he echoed, trying not to grin at her throwing his own words back at him. “What kind of fun are we talking about?”
Kira leaned forward, just a little, her smirk softening again. Her eyes locked on his, and for a second, there was something quieter in the air, something heavier.
Neither of them moved to fill the silence, for once.
“Kir—”
Zedd flinched as the sound of footsteps cut through the driveway, shattering whatever moment had been building. He bit back a curse, straightening instinctively as Kira stiffened beside him.
She stepped back fast, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t, the smirk snapping back into place, sharper than before. “Looks like you’ve got company,” she said, tone too light, too casual.
But her eyes lingered, a half-second longer.
Zedd slowly scratched the back of his neck, trying not to let the awkward crawl too far under his skin. “Don’t miss me too much, Blue.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” she called over her shoulder, brushing past the figure stepping into the garage. Her voice was steady, but the quickness of her exit gave her away.
The man in the doorway moved slowly, his steps deliberate, like he thought walking with purpose might earn him a gold star. His jacket caught the overhead light, clean lines and subtle tailoring making it look more expensive than practical. The kind of outfit for someone who wanted you to think they were both.
Zedd tossed his gloves onto the bench, leaning back against it with his arms loosely crossed.
His eyes swept the man’s face—mid-40s, sharp features, the kind of stress lines that came from too many late nights.
“Mr. Victors, I presume,” the man said, his words clipped and precise, like he’d spent too much time practicing them.
Zedd tilted his head, one brow raising. “Depends who’s asking.”
The stranger’s lips tugged into what could’ve passed for a polite smile, but it never touched his eyes. “James Takahashi,” he said, hand extended. “Senior engineer for the colony’s central operations division.”
Zedd gave the outstretched hand a glance, more curiosity than hesitation, before gripping it with just enough pressure to keep things even. “Senior engineer, huh? This about a fine? ‘Cause I’ll save you the trouble—I don’t even know if I need a business license.”
Takahashi let out a small chuckle, the kind that was more for show than anything else. “No fines. Not today, anyway. I heard about your work—specifically from Lieutenant Rourke.”
Zedd blinked, his eyebrow sliding up. “Man’s still going on about that? It’s been months since I fixed up his Armax.”
“‘Fixed,’” Takahashi repeated like he was testing the word. There was something almost skeptical in the way he said it, like he was measuring it against a checklist in his head.
Zedd didn’t bother hiding the raised brow he shot back. The hell was that about?
“Anyway,” Takahashi continued, his tone smoothing out. “Word travels. People talk. And from what I’ve heard, you made quite an impression.” His gaze drifted to the cluttered bench behind Zedd, taking in the tangled mess of tools and half-finished projects.
“Pragmatic, efficient, and—if Rourke’s report is accurate—miles ahead of what most engineers could manage in similar circumstances.” He paused, eyes flicking back to Zedd’s face. “I wanted to see for myself what someone with no formal training could accomplish.”
Zedd leaned back slightly, keeping his posture loose. “Formal training’s overrated. Got a few certs, though.” He lied as easily as he breathed, feeling no need to mention the certs were about as real as a Krogan beauty pageant. Getting passage onto a colony when your education ended at thirteen was… tricky, even when you had money to buy passage.
Takahashi tilted his head, his curiosity sharpening as he gave Zedd a once-over. “Certifications or not, your results suggest someone with… a great deal of hands-on experience… which your age wouldn’t imply.”
Zedd held his gaze steady, no flinch, no tell. “Lots of practice.”
There was a quiet hum from Takahashi, something like approval, as he took a step closer. His attention shifted back to the workbench. “And all of this?” he gestured vaguely at the scattered projects. “Is the practice?”
Zedd shrugged, tilting his head over to the disassembled drone in front of him. “What’s the point of having tools if you’re not gonna use ’em?”
They slipped into a rhythm—questions from Takahashi, answers from Zedd, the conversation picking up a beat as the stranger’s inquiries got more specific. More technical.
“How do you handle heat dispersion when space for cooling is limited?” Takahashi asked, his voice dipping into something sharper, more precise.
Zedd leaned forward, his finger tapping one of the exposed thermal layers on the open barrier beside him. “Thermal conductors…layered over each other, simple as. Mining rigs scraps, being honest. Do the job, though. Compact, durable, so they handle all that strain without wasting space with more bulk.”
“…Impressive,” Takahashi said, his tone neutral, but the pause carried weight.
Zedd smirked faintly, letting the silence hang for a second. “Glad we agree on something.”
Takahashi’s gaze landed on the cluster of kinetic barriers stacked on the bench. “Localized shielding emitters?”
Zedd straightened, pointing toward the devices with a casual flick of his hand. “Yeah. Full-body shields just suck power. These focus on heavy zones—head, chest, arms. Keeps you alive without wasting energy on dumb stuff, like your shins.”
Takahashi’s brow furrowed as his curiosity sharpened further. “And you’re confident the redistribution won’t destabilize under sustained fire?”
Zedd tapped his temple lightly, a cocky grin sliding back into place. “Nah, math checks out, for the most part. Worst case, system overloads but that gives you less reverb than a push. Not the neatest fix, but it’ll hold.”
Takahashi nodded, the motion slow and deliberate, before his attention drifted toward the drone at the edge of the bench. “And this? Repair job or custom build?”
“Started as a repair,” Zedd said, following the man’s gaze. “But I’m tweaking it. Added modular features, so I can swap parts out instead of patching them up every time something fries.”
“Pragmatic,” Takahashi said, a hint of approval threading through his tone. “You’ve clearly got a sharp mind for innovation. Lieutenant Rourke’s Omnitool alone was…” He trailed off, searching for the right word. “…Unexpectedly sophisticated.”
Zedd let out a dry chuckle, his shoulders relaxing. “That’s one way to put it.”
Takahashi’s voice dipped, quieter now, more deliberate. “How did you manage to integrate military-grade protocols into civilian hardware without destabilizing the shielding matrix?”
Zedd leaned back, his fingers drumming idly against the edge of the bench. “Trade secret.”
Takahashi raised an eyebrow.
“Fine,” Zedd relented, rolling his eyes. “It’s just power flow. Combat Omnis already do a lot at once—shields, scans, the whole works. That’s how they fry themselves, which is really why most people fuck up converting civ Omnis for use in combat, ’cause civ Omnis are technically doing a lot more in the background that soldiers don’t need, and you can’t really turn that off without all-new core soft. Rewired it so it could dynamically shift resources. Keeps it focused on a few tasks at a time without burning out.”
The faint flicker of admiration in Takahashi’s eyes barely registered before his expression shifted back to its usual careful neutrality. “You figured that out on your own?”
Zedd let his grin stretch just enough to read as cocky, leaning into the bench like he wasn’t taking the question seriously. “It’s a gift.”
Takahashi didn’t laugh, didn’t even smirk.
Instead, he kept digging, each question sharper than the last, poking at Zedd’s answers like he was trying to see where the cracks might be. Zedd played it cool, kept his responses short when he needed to, detailed when it counted.
Half the time, he didn’t even think about the answers before they left his mouth—just instincts pulling the right threads. Still, something about the way Takahashi asked things made his skin prickle.
He’s not here for small talk, Zedd realized quickly. He’s testing me.
Trust wasn’t automatic, and that was fine by him. The guy was an engineer, sure, but the way his eyes darted from the workbench to the drone to the half-finished barriers screamed more than just technical curiosity.
When Takahashi finally stepped back, there was a flicker of something on his face. Respect, maybe… but Zedd half-doubted it. “You’re… an enigma, Mr. Victors.” His tone was dry, like he wasn’t entirely happy admitting it.
Zedd snorted, crossing his arms loosely. “I’ve been called worse.”
The faintest trace of a chuckle slipped from Takahashi, polite and detached, the kind of laugh people gave when they didn’t want to seem rude. “Pragmatic. I can appreciate that.” He glanced around the cluttered space one last time, then flicked his wrist. His Omnitool lit up, casting his hand in a dark blue glow as he keyed in a quick message.
Zedd’s own Omnitool chimed softly a second later, the notification glowing faintly on his wrist.
His eyes darted to it before lifting back to Takahashi.
“There’s a gathering in two weeks,” the engineer said, the polished tone slipping back into his voice. It felt rehearsed, almost clinical. “An event for innovators, entrepreneurs, and other prominent colonists. A chance to exchange ideas.” He paused, letting the weight of the invitation settle. “I’d like you to attend.”
Zedd raised an eyebrow, the skepticism plain in his voice. “A gathering, huh? Sounds real fancy.”
Takahashi’s smile widened just enough to show teeth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s the sort of gathering where your talents might find… appreciation.”
———————–
Two Weeks Later
Zedd leaned against the far wall of the room, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders relaxed.
His eyes, though, weren’t.
They moved slow, picking the place apart piece by piece like he needed to file it away for later.
The room was too pristine. Too much money thrown at it.
Marble floors shined so bright they reflected the soft lighting overhead. Walls lined with wood paneling that screamed imported—not cheap knockoff, either, but the real thing.
Imported for effect.
He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself not to fidget. Everything about the place felt deliberate, the kind of effort that made him itch.
Soft orchestral music drifted around, background noise that sounded… off. Classical? No, he knew what classical sounded like. Dad played it all the time. Which dad, exactly, he wasn’t exactly sure as ten months hadn’t exactly helped him keep memories from overlapping each other but he knew it was at least one of them.
Problem is… this sounds like shit. Like, you fed classical to a robot and had it remix it or something. Just off…
Like everything and everyone else in here, aptly enough.
The crowd moved like they owned the place, which they probably did. Tailored suits and shimmering dresses gleamed under the lights, their every detail screaming wealth without having to say a damn word.
The kind of rich you couldn’t afford to rob, because the blowback would be worse than just going to prison when you got caught.
Zedd glanced down at his own suit, and a faint grimace tugged at the corner of his mouth. It fit him fine—hell, It’d better, considering the 1,500 cred he dropped on it—but it wasn’t even close to the level of polish these people were dripping with. Wouldn’t even be a rounding error in their dry-cleaning bill.
His eyes flicked to one of the servers gliding past, their tray of champagne flutes balanced perfectly. The thought hit him sideways: even they’re better dressed than me. He shoved the feeling down, shifted his weight against the wall like it didn’t matter.
“Comfortable?” a voice broke through his thoughts, smooth and low.
Zedd turned his head, already knowing who he’d see. Takahashi stood beside him, a glass of amber liquid balanced in his hand. The man’s tailored jacket looked every bit as sharp as the easy confidence in his stance.
Annoying, really.
“Comfortable’s pushing it,” Zedd said, voice low. “But I’m here, so there’s that.”
Takahashi’s smirk was faint, almost more in his eyes than his mouth as he took a slow sip from his champagne flute. “True. And that’s more than most.”
Zedd’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That supposed to mean something?”
“It means most people like you don’t get into rooms like this,” Takahashi said, his tone calm, deliberate. he gestured vaguely toward the crowd, his movements subtle but pointed.
Zedd stiffened slightly at the phrasing, though he kept his tone even. “People like me?”
Takahashi met his gaze without flinching. “Young. Self-made. Not tied to the system. Uncaring of the rules and standards of the Alliance, even the colonists… they just follow the leader and his rules without thinking too hard. It’s a simple fact that most people are rather lacking in agency, and they don’t simply do things, not unless it’s easy or immediately extremely rewarding, You understand? ” he paused, voice softening just enough to take the edge off. “It’s a compliment.”
Zedd snorted, glancing back at the room. his tone stayed flat. “Yeah, sure. Feels real complimentary.”
The pause stretched for a beat too long, Takahashi’s gaze sharp before it shifted toward the center of the room. “You should mingle,” he said, his tone light but pointed. “There are people here who’d find your work… intriguing.”
Zedd raised an eyebrow, his mouth tugging into a faint smirk he didn’t actually feel.
He didn’t answer right away, instead letting his eyes trail across the clusters of people filling the room. Loud laughter rolled out from one corner while other groups huddled close, their voices low, conspiratorial. His lips twitched into something closer to a grimace. “Everyone here wants something,” he muttered, half under his breath.
“Everyone always wants something.” Takahashi let out a quiet chuckle. “Welcome to the galaxy, Mr. Victors.” Without waiting for a response, he slipped away, disappearing into the crowd with a practiced smile intended for someone he probably couldn’t stand.
Zedd stayed put, hands buried in his pockets as people moved through the space with poorly-disguised precision, every gesture measured, every step deliberate. Conversations buzzed around him, layers of overlapping chatter that felt both meaningless and sharp-edged as smiles stretched too wide, laughter came a half-second too late. Fake.
He stayed to the edges, drifting slowly along the perimeter like a ghost. Wouldn’t trust almost anyone in here with even a single cred.
A woman in a sleek black dress stood near the middle of the room, her hand slicing the air sharply as she spoke to two men with identical corporate badges pinned to their lapels. Her voice carried just enough to turn heads without outright shouting, her tone clipped, her body language aggressive.
Not far off, a younger man hovered at the edge of a different group, his nods too eager, his smile frozen in place. Same fucking smile, how do they not see it? At the bar, a man with a booming laugh and a thick mustache leaned into his audience, his gaze flicking between faces as if mentally sorting them into columns—useful and not.
Zedd’s stomach twisted. Yeah. Not for me.
It didn’t take long for someone to notice him lingering.
A woman, middle-aged, sharp-eyed, intercepted him before he could slip into the next shadowed corner. The marketing badge on her jacket practically gleamed under the recessed lighting, and her smile was wide and warm. The handshake she offered was firm, professional, practiced, but her eyes—those gave her away.
Why don’t they ever try to match the smiles? He couldn’t help but wonder. All of them had the same exact problem.
“Zedd Victors,” she said, her voice smooth, polished, all edges sanded down to perfection. “I’ve been hoping to run into you tonight.”
I… I’m not a fan of people knowing my name for no reason. Zedd shook her hand, keeping his grip steady, his face carefully blank. “Lucky me.”
Her laugh was low, rehearsed. not a sound that meant anything. “Word’s gotten around about your work. That custom job for a… Lieutenant Rourke, I believe? Impressive.”
Zedd shrugged, his tone flat. “Just another job.”
Her smile widened, bright but brittle, as she slipped a sleek contact card from her jacket. The Devlon logo shimmered faintly in the soft light, a small holographic detail that screamed precision and money. “What you did was… unique. Devlon prides itself on spotting exceptional talent, and I think you’d find our engineering team very… accommodating.”
Zedd took the card, barely glancing at it before tucking it into his pocket. His eyes stayed locked on hers. “I’ll think about it.”
“I hope you do,” she replied, her tone chipper, final. She didn’t wait for a response before moving on, her attention already shifting to the next target.
Zedd watched her go, his jaw tightening. She didn’t even introduce herself.
It didn’t stop there.
They came one after another—with firm handshakes and firmer smiles, sharp questions dressed up in compliments. A mining executive asked about power efficiency like Zedd was a rookie getting quizzed. A wiry guy from a security startup cornered him near the bar, dropping words like “synergy” and “partnership” without saying anything that mattered. A woman from some Traverse-focused tech blog pushed for details on his methods, her wide-eyed curiosity hiding the thin blade of professional interest.
None of them cared about the hours he’d spent troubleshooting circuits or the way his fingers burned after too much time soldering wires. They didn’t care about the trial and error, about how half the time his work came from scraps he dragged from salvage and barely managed to slam together.
They didn’t care about him.
All they wanted was what they thought they could pull out of his head.
Zedd drifted back to the wall, his spot, jaw tight and eyes sharp as he scanned the room. Every laugh, every motion, every polished smile grated against something deep in his chest. They’re good at this. The fluidity in how they moved, their banter flipping to razor-sharp negotiation in an instant—it all had a kind of calculated ease.
Watching it play out, though? He could see the cracks.
Too eager, he noted, his gaze catching on a younger guy leaning too far into the space of a suited exec, his handshake too vigorous. Too pushy, as a silver-haired woman jabbed a finger into the air while making her point to a bored-looking cluster of listeners. Tone it the fuck down, he thought as the man at the bar let out a booming laugh that couldn’t possibly hide how his eyes darted between faces like he was tracking inventory.
All trying too hard.
All of it… just… he sneered for an instant, just remembering to control his expression. Bullshit.
He shifted his weight, leaning further into the wall and letting his hands sink deeper into his pockets. His mouth pressed into a line as he scanned the room.
Toward the center, movement caught his eye.
A man entered, cutting through the space like the room was built to accommodate him. The suit he wore gleamed under the soft lights, edges so sharp they could’ve been pressed that morning.
His entourage followed, their movements tight and coordinated, sticking close without seeming like they were hovering.
What really stuck, though, was the guy’s smile—too perfect, too plastic.
“Who’s that?” Zedd muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. His voice stayed low, careful, like it’d give something away if he said it too loud.
A voice behind him answered, cutting through his thoughts. “Daniel Shen-Abraham.”
His body jerked before he could stop it, a twitch he couldn’t hide as he turned toward the speaker. The flash of blue hair made his shoulders drop slightly, the tension slipping.
Kira stood there, arms crossed, her usual smirk tilted just enough to soften the edge. Her head tipped slightly toward the man in the suit, who now stood mid-conversation with an older couple in matching outfits, his expression one of exaggerated concern.
“Founder. Governor. Basically the self-declared king of New Abraham, considering he named it after himself,” she said, her voice dripping with sardonic weight, the words coming out like they were being read off a script she’d memorized but couldn’t stand to repeat.
Zedd blinked, turning his head back toward the man as he processed the information. “Oh,” he said simply, his voice flat. There wasn’t anything else to say. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Kira rolled her eyes, her smirk inching wider. “Didn’t expect to see your ass here either.”
Her gaze dipped briefly, skimming over his suit. “You clean up nice, richie. Didn’t think you even owned anything that didn’t smell like grease.”
Zedd snorted, his eyes narrowing slightly as he gave her a once-over.
Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, but it was the dress that hit like a punch. Shimmering cobalt, bold, the kind of thing that was all sharp lines and unapologetic edges. It clung to her in ways that felt deliberate, and it didn’t stop there. The neckline dipped low. The hem hovered just above her knees, equal parts flashy and defiant.
His gaze flicked over the jewelry—silver, chunky—and the sequins catching the light. It was loud, on purpose.
No subtlety.
No understated elegance like the rest of the room. She was dressed like she wanted everyone to see her, just like the day he met her.
Classic Kira. He let the smirk tug wider. “and you’re still impossible.”
Her grin sharpened, but before she could fire back, someone else stepped into their space.
The guy who’d been hovering near her earlier—a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, neatly cropped hair—moved closer. His posture was stiff, like he was stuck in parade rest, and his steps were calculated, too precise.
Military, no question.
His gaze flicked between Zedd and Kira, quick but deliberate, as if sizing them both up in less than a second. “You’re the repair tech Kira mentioned,” he said, his voice steady, neutral, but probing.
Zedd crossed his arms, his expression unreadable but his tone cutting. “That’s me. And you’re her babysitter, I’m guessing?”
Kira snorted, sharp and immediate, the sound bursting out before she could stop it. The faintest twitch of something that might’ve been amusement flickered at the corners of the man’s mouth, but it didn’t last.
“Lieutenant Adams,” he corrected, his tone still even, calm. “And yes, you could say that.”
So this is her biotic boss. Zedd’s eyebrows lifted just enough to show he was unimpressed, the smirk creeping back into place. “Well, good luck with that.”
Adams’ face didn’t move much—just a slight narrowing of his eyes, like he was tucking the comment away for later. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”
————————
Thirty minutes later, Zedd was out. muttered something vague about the restroom before slipping through the crowd. No one stopped him.
Not like anyone cared that much.
He didn’t slow down until the noise softened behind him, the heavy buzz of the gala replaced by the quieter hum of the building’s back halls. Clean lines, polished floors.
Sterile.
The air here didn’t weigh as much.
His pace faltered when a voice bled through the crack of an open door.
“…shielding gaps outside major downtown areas…”
He froze, his body snapping to stillness before his brain even caught up. His head tilted slightly toward the sound.
“…dangerous if breached…”
“Of course. Abraham cut corners. always does…”
His stomach turned. his pulse thudded too hard, too loud in his ears. His feet felt rooted in place for a second longer before he shook himself loose, forcing his legs to move, each step slow and deliberate.
The pieces swirled in his head but he shoved the thought down.
Paranoia’s a bad look.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
The garage greeted him with silence, the faint hum of the charging station the only noise cutting through the stillness.
Zedd dropped into the chair, slouching back, one foot hooking against the edge of the workbench while the other stayed planted firm on the ground.
The bottle in his hand felt odd.
He hated drinking.
He’d done it once a year ago and it just ended… bad.
He hated the way it dulled his edges, made him feel slow, heavy.
But tonight? Tonight he didn’t give a shit.
He tipped the bottle back, the fizz burning on its way down, cheap and acidic.
His jaw tightened as the taste lingered, sour and unsatisfying, but he didn’t stop.
It was better than thinking about the gala. About the faces and their fake-ass smiles, every word they said wrapped in some hidden agenda. None of it was real. They didn’t care about him or his skills, not in any real way.
They wanted to use him, probably locking him into some permanent contract that would make him half a slave. He’d heard about plenty of planets in the galaxy like that.
His hand tightened around the bottle, lifting it again. But before he could take another swig, his body stopped.
His grip slackened, the bottle slipping free.
Glass hit the floor with a loud crack, the liquid spraying up in sharp lines before pooling out in uneven rivulets. Cold champagne soaked his suit trousers, his brand-new syn-leather shoes, but he didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
His eyes were locked ahead, glazed and distant.
His mind wasn’t blank. It was worse than blank.
It was crowded.
Numbers, formulas, equations—shit that didn’t belong—pushed into his brain all at once. The periodic table scrolled past his thoughts like a neon billboard, each element lighting up vivid and sharp.
Atomic weights. Molecular structures. Chemical equations.
Table salt? Sodium chloride. Sure. But tweak it here, add this, change that… Wait, what the hell?
His thoughts jumped tracks, spinning into reactions he didn’t recognize but understood anyway.
“This… this isn’t normal,” he rasped, hands grasping at his worktable for support.
It didn’t even sound like him.
But it didn’t stop.
Dipotassium phosphate. Acetaminophen synthesis. So many fuckin’ compounds and their exact chemical structures, some that didn’t even make fuckin’ sense. All of it poured in, flooding his head with shit he had no idea how he was supposed to understand.
His chest hitched, breathing frozen in his chest. Like it was clogged leaving his throat. A-am I dying?
No. No, just… wrong.
Everything was wrong.“What… what the fuck is this?”
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
5k Words (100 FP)
Shield Innovator (100 FP)
Automotive Aspirations (100 FP)
Corporate Interest (100 FP)
ROLL: Pure Art (FREE) [Destiny – Old] {Quality: Appearance}: “The visual arts may not be your thing, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be good at it. With this, you will be able to adorn any object you possess with paint or some other kind of marker and make it look good. You can paint armor, vehicles and weapons. Depending on what you portray, it could evoke different emotions. From fear to inspiration. You must have some skill at drawing or painting, and something to draw or paint with.”
FAIL: Enlightenment (1000 FP) [Assassin’s Creed] {Knowledge – Mundane): “You now recall some of your Precursor knowledge. Create items capable of running off nearby brainwaves, lasers that can incinerate a grown man in a second, vaults that last megaton-range damage, all with the appropriate materials.”
FAIL: The Maddest Science Yet! (800 FP) [Tenchi Muyo] {Knowledge – Future Tech}: “This perk grants two features that in universe depend on your setting, out of universe both work unless you desire otherwise.
Slice of Life: Your brilliance is such that you can build amazing inventions to solve all kinds of problems, easily accomplishing feats depicted in pulpy science fiction novels. More importantly however, you gain an absolute certainty in your work. Nothing made by your hands or under your complete direction can harm people (or planets) unintentionally. A comically large mess may ensue however.
SpaceOpera: You can create supertech wonders, past mere conveniences into legitimately useful things like advanced starships, ray guns and miraculous Devices. You can also enhance technology from other jumps with this skill. Note that trying to build an FTL starship from scratch on an unDeveloped world will probably take ten years… “
ROLL: Chemist (100 FP) [Fallout 4] {Knowledge-Mundane): “Groovy! Knowledge of chemistry has given you the ability to recite the entire periodic table, as well as knowledge of many exciting compounds such as dipotassium phosphate! Oh, and you can also make less exciting things like Stimpacks and Psycho, but why would you do that?”
Forge Points: 550 FP