Massive Disaster II-22
Massive Disaster II-22 Thirty-five vials.
Zedd counted them again, not because he doubted ADAM’s precision—ADAM didn’t screw up—but because his brain needed something to latch onto, something to process in the background while the reality of what he was looking at really settled in.
Lined up neat in the cabinet, glowing under the cold-blue lab lights, the liquid looked almost alive. That deep, royal blue, too smooth, too perfect, like it had intent. He flexed his fingers, resisting the urge to crack his knuckles, to tap against the glass, to do something.
“Final batch quality assessment,” he muttered, still staring.
“All samples within 0.02% variance of original compound,” ADAM confirmed, tone just flat enough to be smug. “Projected stability at room temperature remains ninety-eight percent over six months, with extended viability under current storage conditions.”
Zedd nodded, slow, distracted. Five hundred and twenty-five milliliters total. More than enough for—what, five full doses? Maybe six, if he fine-tuned delivery efficiency. He barely needed to run the math. It sat in his head, lived there, slotting into place the way numbers always did.
“Shelf stable, minimal degradation, consistent potency,” he murmured, fingers drumming against the cabinet’s edge. His own voice sounded distant, like he was hearing himself through a speaker. His jaw tensed. “Guess that makes it real.”
ADAM’s silence stretched a little too long before he finally answered. “It was real before, boss.”
Zedd exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, well, now it’s mine.”
A pause.
“Shall I alert your legal team?”
Zedd snorted. “What legal team?”
“That was sarcasm, boss.”
“Yeah, well, so was that.”
His fingers hovered over the biometric lock, then pressed down. The security protocols engaged with a soft chhk, secondary locks sliding into place, internal monitoring systems kicking on.
“Full containment,” he said, mostly to himself. “Authorization Victor-One-Alpha-Omega only.”
The system confirmed the lockdown, but his brain was already skipping ahead, pulling in variables, outcomes, implications. Not just the serum itself—the concept of it. The reality of what it meant to own something like this.
The old instinct clawed up from somewhere deep, unshakable: You can’t trust anyone with it.
Because this? This wasn’t just tech. This wasn’t just shields or suits or stasis modules or nanite interfacing. This wasn’t something he could release as a product, package up neatly, patent, ship out in discreet little boxes with an upcharge and a liability waiver.
This was human evolution in a bottle.
This was rewriting the rules.
And who the hell got to decide how that happened?
His jaw tightened, fingers flexing at his sides, a quick, restless movement. He needed to not think about that right now. Needed to keep moving, keep working, keep pushing to the next step before he got stuck in this one.
“Any update on the Rogers search?” He was already turning, already heading for the stairs, already putting distance between himself and the locked cabinet before his brain did something stupid, like try to make decisions before he was ready.
“Processing continues,” ADAM replied smoothly. “I will notify you when significant results become available.”
Zedd hummed in acknowledgment, barely listening.
The serum would keep.
That was the problem.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Nina squinted at the contract hovering above her desk, eyes flicking past the walls of corporate legalese that had long since blurred into indistinct gray blocks of headache fuel. Half the terms might as well have been in another language. Probably were. Didn’t matter. She knew enough to know she didn’t know enough. The exclusivity clause sat there, highlighted and waiting, like a test question she hadn’t studied for, and her stomach twisted at the thought of screwing it up.
Her omni-tool buzzed against her wrist, another unread message adding to the backlog she was spectacularly failing to clear. She exhaled through her nose. Six months ago, I was swapping out bad wiring at the Hub. Now I’m negotiating off-world distribution rights. Her fingers tapped absently against the desk, gaze still locked on the projection. A bad contract wasn’t just a bad contract. It was money, security, a hundred things she wasn’t qualified to handle, but had to anyway. No pressure. Just making sure Zedd’s company doesn’t implode before it properly exists.
Her eyes flicked to the timestamp. She’d been staring at this for an hour. Maybe more. She pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. The responsible thing would be to flag it for legal review and let the experts handle it. But the thought of sending it off without at least understanding it made her jaw clench. Should’ve taken that damn business course.
Her omni-tool chimed again. A different tone. Personal message. She groaned, resisting the urge to chuck the thing across the room. If this is another delay notice, I swear—
“Rough day?”
The voice made her jump. She turned, pulse kicking up before she registered the blonde head leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed, half-smiling like she had all the time in the world. Kira looked unbothered as ever, not a hair out of place despite the fact she’d just spent two hours in the training room making Dev regret his life choices.
Nina exhaled, dragging a hand down her face. “That obvious?”
Kira stepped inside, casting a glance at the precarious stack of datapads teetering on the edge of the desk. “Your eye’s doing that twitchy thing again.”
Nina huffed out a laugh before she could stop herself, rubbing her temple. “Great. Now I’ve got a tell.”
Kira smirked, dropping into the chair across from her and stretching her legs out like she owned the space. For a second, neither of them spoke, and the silence settled wrong. Not awkward, not really, but loaded in a way that made Nina’s throat feel tight. Some conversations left echoes even after they ended.
Nina cleared her throat, straightening. “You need something? If it’s about the Redoubt shipment, I still haven’t—”
“I don’t need anything.” Kira waved a hand, cutting her off. “Just finished with Dev, saw your light was still on.” Her eyes flicked over Nina’s face, reading something Nina wasn’t sure she wanted read. “You look like you could use a break.”
The words caught her off guard, not because they weren’t true, but because Kira had never been the one to say them.
Nina forced a smile. “I’m fine.” It was automatic, instinctive. Fell flat even to her own ears.
Kira didn’t even blink. “Sure. Because people who are fine totally look like they’re one bad ping away from chucking their omni-tool through a window.”
Nina sighed, tension bleeding from her shoulders as she leaned back in her chair. “Is it that obvious I’m drowning here?”
“A little bit.” Kira tilted her head, considering her. “What’s got you stuck?”
Nina gestured vaguely at the now-closed contract, resisting the urge to scrub a hand through her hair. “Everything? Exclusive distribution agreements, manufacturing rights, export regulations… I… I don’t know what I’m doing, princess. I’m trying to learn on the job, but this company’s growing faster than I can keep up.”
The words just sat there, a little too naked, a little too unguarded, like she hadn’t meant to let them slip. Nina felt it immediately—the quiet weight of something real sitting between them. The kind of thing Kira usually sidestepped, smoothed over, buried under something sharp and dismissive before anyone could pry too deep.
But it didn’t come. No tight-lipped smirk, no dry little jab about weakness. Kira just leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees, watching. “You ever think about bringing in help?” she asked, voice even, too even. “Someone who actually knows business?”
Nina exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. “Constantly. But Zedd’s—” her fingers flexed, palms pressing against her thighs before she forced them still. “He’s paranoid about security. He trusts me to handle it. And I just…” Don’t want to let him down. The words sat there, unspoken but obvious, because of course Kira would see through it anyway. “I don’t want to disappoint him.”
Kira’s laugh came sharp and bitter, something biting at the edges of it. “Yeah, well. Get in line.”
That made Nina pause. Kira wasn’t the type to say shit like that accidentally. Her eyes narrowed slightly, reading past the surface, past the deliberately casual slouch of Kira’s posture, the way her shoulders were just a little too tense.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Kira shrugged, aiming for nonchalant but missing. Her jaw worked slightly before she flicked her gaze away, like the conversation was already over. “Forget it.”
Bullshit.
Nina didn’t forget things like that.
Her mind started clicking through possibilities, recalibrating as she really looked at Kira. She wasn’t the same unshaken, unbothered private from six months ago—not just physically, but in how she held herself, how she reacted. Something in her was shifting, something she hadn’t let herself say out loud yet.
Then it landed.
“This is about Kai Leng, isn’t it?”
Kira’s jaw went tight, expression smoothing over too quickly. That two-second flick of her eyes before she locked everything down? Yeah. Bullseye.
“He’s good at his job,” Kira said finally, voice carefully neutral. “Professional. I guess.”
“And making you feel obsolete.” Nina said it flat, direct, and the way Kira’s shoulders twitched was all the confirmation she needed. “Kira, you know Zedd still values—”
“At least you have a defined role.” Kira cut in, voice sharp, something raw bleeding into the edges. “Dev trains him, Adele patches him up, Leng guards him. What am I now? The backup security that never gets called? The biotic who doesn’t do shit? The adviser no one asks for advice?”
That hit in a way Nina hadn’t expected, because Kira never talked like this. Never said shit out loud that actually mattered. It was one thing to suspect—another thing entirely to hear the weight of it in her voice, clipped and edged but undeniably honest.
Nina hesitated for just a second, unsure how to push forward without making her retreat. “I didn’t realize you felt that way.”
Kira let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well. Not like I’m advertising it.” Her hand ran through her hair, fingers pushing through short blonde strands like she was trying to ground herself, like the words had already cost her something. “I haven’t even trained my biotics in months.” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Can feel my skills atrophying.”
That—that was new. Kira never talked about her biotics, never. Not like this.
“You could ask Zedd for time off to train,” Nina suggested, voice careful, measured. “He’d understand—”
“It’s not just that.” Kira cut her off again, shaking her head like she was trying to clear something away before it could fully settle. “It’s…” She trailed off, brows pulling together, something unreadable flickering across her face before she forced it still. “Everything’s changing. Moving forward. I hit my birthday a few months ago, and I don’t even know…” Her voice wavered, just for a second, before she caught it. “You’re all finding your places in whatever this is becoming. And I’m just… here.”
Something in Kira’s voice hit too close.
All raw, real, and too much like herself, that same creeping feeling of not quite belonging in the mess Zedd had built around them.
“I get it,” Nina said, softer than she meant to, a quiet confession she really hadn’t planned on making. “Believe me, I do.” She exhaled, gesturing vaguely at the datapads, the open contract, the absolute shitstorm her life had become. “Half the time, I’m pretty much playing dress-up. I don’t know interviews and rich people talk, princess. Like I blinked and suddenly I’m supposed to be some big-shot asssistant, but really? I’m just a girl from Miami who happened to fall for the galaxy’s weirdest fuckin’ genius.”
Something flickered across Kira’s face, fast and almost imperceptible before her mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough that Nina counted it as a win. “He does have a way of pulling people into his orbit, doesn’t he, midget?”
“Like gravity.” Nina shook her head, half amused, half exhausted. “One second you’re watching from a distance, next thing you know, you’ve built your whole damn life around him.”
It came out easier than it should have. Maybe too easy. The weight behind it settled between them, unspoken but understood. This—them, sitting here, talking like this—should’ve been impossible, but here they were anyway.
Kira shifted suddenly, reaching out to tap one of the datapads, eyes flicking over the dense legal text. “Back when I was with the militia, I handled a lot of my CO’s reports and contracts.” The way she said it was deliberately casual, like it wasn’t an offer. Like she was testing the waters before committing to the idea. “Not exactly corporate negotiations, but same kind of thing.”
Nina blinked, brain stuttering over what she was hearing. “Are you—” She stopped, recalibrated. “You wanna help with this?”
Kira shrugged. “I’m saying I’m bored as shit watching Leng hover over Zedd like some perfect little assassin droid, and you look like you could use a second set of eyes.” Her expression stayed neutral, like it didn’t matter either way, but her shoulders were tense, just a little. “Unless that’d be weird.”
The unspoken question sat between them. Can we do this? Work together without everything else getting in the way?
Nina let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, a slow grin creeping onto her face. “Kira, at this point? I’ll take whatever help I can get.”
That tension in Kira’s posture loosened, just slightly, like she’d been bracing for a different answer. “Alright then. Let’s start with that contract. Show me what you got.”
As Nina reopened the display, she had a moment, one of those weird, surreal moments where you look at your life from the outside and realize how fucking strange it’s all gotten. Of all the people to pull her out of the spiral, it was Kira. The woman who—under different circumstances—might’ve been exactly where she was, sitting across from Zedd instead of her.
Life was funny like that.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
The nanomachines swarmed across the microscopic substrate, flickering between formations like schools of silverfish caught in a current too small for human eyes to track. To anyone else, it would look random. Maybe even chaotic. But there was a pattern. There was always a pattern. Zedd had been locked onto this one for the past six hours, tracking each shift, mapping every cycle, watching them break apart and somehow reform exactly as they had been before. No degradation. No entropy.
Just persistence.
It shouldn’t have been possible. Not like this. Not with the laws of physics as they were supposed to work.
“Run simulation delta-seven again,” he muttered, barely aware he’d spoken, fingers skating the edge of the interface, muscle memory more than conscious thought. “Focus on molecular memory retention during phase transition.”
The display shifted, slowing to highlight the exact moment of transformation. This was the part he kept coming back to—the way they didn’t just rearrange, but remembered their previous state. Not stored data, not coded instructions. Matter itself was recalling what it had been.
Which, again, shouldn’t happen.
“Magnify section 12C,” he said, adjusting his glasses with a nudge of his knuckle, eyes narrowing as the focus tightened on the microscopic linkages. The entire cluster hung frozen mid-transition, caught in the act of breaking apart while already knowing how to come back together. He exhaled through his nose. “There. Freeze frame.”
ADAM complied without comment, the moment locking into place. The holotable projection flickered slightly as the enhanced magnification pushed the resolution to its limit.
“ADAM, what’s the variance between projected memory decay and observed retention?”
“Approximately 12.4%,” ADAM responded smoothly. “Observed retention exceeds theoretical maximum by that margin across all test samples.”
Zedd tapped his fingers against the table, a rapid tchk-tchk-tchk as his brain turned it over. That number hadn’t changed. Not once. No matter how many tests he ran, how many configurations he pushed through, the damn things weren’t just maintaining their memory, they were getting better at it. Optimizing. Refining. Which meant…
They were learning.
The thought sent a sharp thrill up his spine, something equal parts exhilaration and unease.
“Cross-reference with the stasis module test results,” he said, reaching for his coffee without looking. The ceramic was rather cold against his palm but that meant nothing for the liquid inside it. Shit. He took a sip anyway, wincing. “Specifically the temporal density fluctuations during field collapse.”
The display split, scrolling stasis module data alongside the nanomachine simulations. Two completely different technologies, two entirely separate principles of function, and yet—
“Correlation detected,” ADAM cut in. “Pattern matching between temporal field harmonics and nano-resonance signatures at approximately 64% confidence.”
Zedd stilled. The coffee in his hand might as well have ceased to exist.
“Show me.”
The two datasets merged, overlaid resonance patterns highlighted in distinct colors. His breath slowed.
There it was.
Not a perfect match, not an obvious smoking gun, but close enough. The fluctuations in the stasis field mirrored the resonance shifts in the nanomachines almost exactly at specific frequencies. The same way the nanites remembered their previous states, the stasis field held temporal resistance against changes in timeflow. Different applications, but the same core principle.
Which meant…
“Son of a bitch,” he breathed, the gears in his head kicking into overdrive.
If the nanomachines were responding to the same frequency alignments as the stasis field, that meant they weren’t just remembering their past configurations. They were outright anticipating them. Calculating forward as well as backward. Learning not just from what they had been, but from what they predicted the user wanted them to be.
He barely noticed his hands moving, already queuing up a fresh simulation, eyes darting between screens as his brain jumped ahead, cutting corners, making leaps before the logic caught up. If the principle held, if they really were reacting to a shared harmonic framework, then in theory—
“ADAM, run integration simulation alpha,” he ordered. “Base parameters on stasis configuration three, nano-pattern echo seven.”
A half-second pause. Then: “Warning,” ADAM cautioned. “Simulation stability uncertain. Potential for cascading pattern collapse if incompatible.”
Zedd waved that off before the words had fully registered. “Run it.”
The holotable flickered, momentary lag betraying the processing load before the simulation kicked in.
Then the screen lit up.
Nanomachines, previously static, reacted instantly to the modified stasis field, their patterns shifting in real time, adapting before the transition even occurred.
“Holy shit,” Zedd whispered, watching as the projected nanostructures bent, flexed, predicted their next states with an accuracy that should have been impossible.
Not just memory. Not just optimization. Precognition.
“Temporal precognition at molecular scale,” he murmured, barely aware he’d even spoken words at all. “Predicting what they’ll become… that’s… that’s unprecedented.”
If he could harness this, refine it, scale it up from microscopic to usable, something more than just a theoretical marvel on a lab table—then the applications weren’t just impressive, they were fundamental. Not better shields, not stronger armor, but material that preempted damage before it even happened. A med system that didn’t just repair injuries but prevented them from forming in the first place. Infrastructure that adapted to stress instead of failing under it. Systems that reacted faster than human perception, shifting the entire conversation on what technology could do versus what it should.
Zedd exhaled hard, pushing away from the holotable, hands running back through his hair, catching on knots he’d stopped noticing hours ago. This was bigger than anything Victory Innovations had put out. Bigger than the high-end combat gear, the reinforced suits, the bleeding-edge defense tech. This was a paradigm shift. If he could just—
The world lurched.
Not a headache, not exhaustion, something else. His stomach dropped like he’d missed a step, like reality itself hiccuped mid-function, and suddenly—
He knew.
Knew things that weren’t his.
Muscle fiber reinforcement, sensory integration, cybernetic prosthesis interfacing with neural pathways so seamlessly it felt like it had always been there. A flood of information—surgical schematics, mechanical augmentation frameworks, wetware protocols optimized for human enhancement. It hit him, sharp and clear, like he’d spent years studying the field, refining it, perfecting it—except he never had.
His hands trembled against the table. What the fuck?
He squeezed his eyes shut, heartbeat hammering as he tried to filter it down, ground himself, but the knowledge wouldn’t fade. Every part of it sat in his mind fully formed, detailed down to the tools, the procedures, the materials, the ethics. He could implant ocular augmentations right now if he had the lab for it. Could design synthetic muscles that outperformed human ones without tearing under strain. Could reconfigure bone structure, splice in enhancements at a fundamental level.
He had no idea where any of it came from.
He inhaled sharply, trying to get ahead of it, to push it down, when—
The world fractured.
Not like before. Worse.
It shattered.
The lab, the holotable, the faint hum of VI systems—all of it crumpled like cheap digital projection, bending, distorting, and then—
White corridors. Sterile. Too clean. The air carried the sharp bite of antiseptic, cool and artificial. Machinery hummed somewhere nearby, precise and controlled, the kind of sound that settled into the bones of a place, constant and oppressive. His feet moved without thinking, stride steady, purpose-driven, the fabric of his lab coat brushing against his legs as he walked. Wait.
He wasn’t wearing a lab coat.
Except he was.
He looked down. The tablet in his hand felt natural, familiar in a way that made his stomach twist. His fingers flexed around the edges, his skin wrong in ways he couldn’t articulate—smoother, younger, but still his.
“Doctor Powers,” a voice called, crisp and formal, cutting through the ambient hum. “Your test results from the MELD integration trials are required for the afternoon briefing.”
He turned without meaning to. The speaker was tall, thin, dressed in a pressed officer’s uniform that gleamed with insignia too sharp, too polished. ADVENT.
ADVENT.
The name rang through his mind like a struck bell, carrying weight, familiarity. The memory cascaded, not a memory, but real, dropping into place like it had always been there—
Doctor Ezekiel Powers.
He was Doctor Ezekiel Powers.
ADVENT’s youngest research lead, prodigy in genetic engineering and quantum physics. Taken from his home at thirteen, recruited into scholarship programs that weren’t scholarships in the slightest. Promised opportunity, excellence, a place among the greatest minds of a new world.
Lies.
He had seen the truth piece by piece, too young, too trusting to understand until it was too late. Not saviors. Not humanity’s allies. Jailers. Occupiers. And he had worked for them.
The years compressed—research breakthroughs, classified briefings, the slow, awful clarity of what he had helped build. The genetic augmentation trials. The psionic dampening systems. The psionic inducement systems. The hybrid soldiers. The moment he understood what they were using his work for, when the last of the illusions shattered, and he started planning. Not escape. Not at first.
Sabotage.
Five years of knowledge, of secrets, of technology no human was meant to wield, and he had been stealing it right under their noses.
Then—alarms.
Red lights. A lockdown. His heart hammering, eighteen now, no longer a child, no longer fooled. A stolen data core clutched in his arms, packed with everything ADVENT didn’t want the world to know.
Footsteps.
Shouting.
He ran, breath burning his throat, dodging past sterile labs and empty corridors that had never felt like home.
He was trapped.
Doorways sealed. Escape routes cut off. No way out.
The lab door hissed open behind him. He spun, instinct kicking in, already knowing what he’d see. ADVENT troopers, armor gleaming, weapons raised, moving with that eerie, inhuman precision that meant they weren’t fully human at all.
This was it.
Then—
Gunfire. Not theirs. Sharp, conventional, bullets slamming through weak points in the armor, precise, practiced, lethal.
Smoke filled the lab. Shadows moved through the haze, human but not ADVENT, their gear worn, battered, functional, marked with an insignia he’d seen before, on resistance broadcasts.
One of them stepped forward, face obscured behind a tactical mask, voice low, distorted but unmistakably human.
“Victors?” A pause, then, sure and certain: “We’re XCOM. Time to go.”
The memory fractured, coming apart like burning paper, edges curling, pieces vanishing into the air before he could hold onto them. Zedd gasped, hands braced hard against the holotable, white-knuckled, breath sharp and uneven, like he’d just surfaced from drowning. His mind reeled, trying to process, to categorize, to make any kind of sense out of what had just happened, but it wasn’t coming together.
That wasn’t him.
Couldn’t be.
He had never worked for ADVENT. Never been trapped in a lab, never fought his way out while XCOM gunned down his captors. That wasn’t even real, not here. He’d vaguely remembered hearing of XCOM in his old life, some old 8bit strategy game about fighting alien invaders or something.
But it felt real.
Too real.
His head pulsed with it, not just a memory, not just an idea, but full, lived experience. A different version of himself, someone who had spent years in those sterile halls, breathing that cold, filtered air, knowing things that had no business existing in his brain. MELD integration, genetic splicing, psionic harmonics—entire research fields he had never studied but now understood at a depth that made his stomach turn. Even directed energy weapons, insane as that was, and that was only the tip of the iceberg.
He could see it, diagrammed out in perfect clarity, equations balancing in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Techniques beyond modern human technology, beyond even what Victory Innovations had.
He had no clue where any of it had come from.
His fingers twitched against the metal surface of the table. His breathing was still too fast, too uneven. The lab was too solid around him, but somehow not solid enough, like he was caught between two places, two selves. The rush of knowledge burned at the edges of his mind, too much, too deep. Not just theories, not just concepts—practical, applicable techniques. He could do it. Right now. Given the right materials, the right tools, he could apply every single thing that had just crashed into his skull.
That thought alone made his pulse spike.
“Boss?”
ADAM’s voice cut through the static in his head, anchoring him back into here, into now. Zedd blinked hard, dragging himself back, fighting to prioritize. The schematics were still flickering behind his vision, ghost-thoughts overlaying reality like a half-loaded HUD.
“What.” It came out rough, almost like his throat didn’t belong to him.
“I have processed the search results regarding Steven Grant Rogers,” ADAM continued, calm, unaffected, like Zedd hadn’t just shattered into someone else a minute ago. “As per your request.”
For a second, Zedd couldn’t even remember why the hell he had asked about Steve Rogers, then—right. The super soldier thing. Serum-based augmentations. Trying to work out viable human enhancement principles without fucking with the genome too much.
Something normal. Something grounded. Something that wasn’t a goddamn alternate life crash-loading into his brain at random.
He took a breath. Then another. Tried to shove the invasive knowledge back where it belonged, lock it down under something functional, something he could control. Focus. One thing at a time.
“Uh-huh, I remember.” He forced his voice into something steadier, reaching up to clear the holotable with a flick of his fingers. The projected nanomachine simulation vanished, blue light shifting back to neutral, but his hands still trembled, just slightly, like the static in his brain hadn’t quite settled.
ADAM launched into the report, monotone and efficient, and Zedd latched onto the words, forcing himself to listen, to process. He needed this, needed something to pin himself down, something that wasn’t the flood of stolen knowledge still curling at the edges of his thoughts. He kept his expression still, kept his breathing measured, but his mind was splitting down the middle, fighting to reconcile what it knew with what it had no business knowing.
Because something had changed.
Something fundamental.
And no matter how much he tried to focus on ADAM’s report, he knew—deep down, past all the denial and forced normalcy—that everything had just shifted.
The knowledge wasn’t going away.
And that meant he had to figure out what the hell he was going to do with it.
Because what was sitting in his head now?
That was alien invasion-level shit. Conquered humanity-level shit.
And it was his.
The Rogers search. Right. Zedd flexed his fingers against the edge of the holotable, grounding himself in the moment. Focus. The thing he’d started a week ago on a whim, back when the serum had first appeared, when he’d been running on too much caffeine and the kind of curiosity that never led anywhere good. A half-serious, probably pointless, definitely late-night idea that had been buried under everything else since.
He almost hadn’t remembered it.
“Let’s hear it,” he said, clearing the nanomachine simulation with a flick. The rest of this work could wait. Probably.
“I have processed approximately all relevant databases,” ADAM reported, tone as steady and neutral as ever.
Something flickered at the edges of his focus, barely enough to register. So ADAM had found something. Or thought he had. Could be nothing. Or it could be another dead-end coincidence, another weird historical hiccup that meant jack shit in the long run. Multiverse quirks, parallel drift, the kind of randomness that looked important until it wasn’t.
He shifted his weight against the workbench, rolling tension out of his shoulders. “And?”
The holotable flickered, shield schematics dissolving into raw data, fragments of old files assembling mid-air. Black and white images, grainy and static-stained, the kind of ancient Earth records that looked like they belonged in a history textbook. All flat faces and serious expressions.
“After applying the additional parameters you specified—” ADAM continued, “—focusing on early 20th century records with military connections, I have identified the subject of interest.” A single image popped up. “One Steven Grant Rogers, born July 4, 1918, in Brooklyn, New York.”
The date hit first.
Then the location.
The two together left a half-second gap in his thoughts, as his fingers twitched, reaching instinctively toward the projection before he could stop himself. A faded photo, thin face, sharp eyes, nothing like the square-jawed comic book hero he’d grown up with, but—
The name.
“Military service?” His voice came out flatter than intended, like the question wasn’t as loaded as it was.
“Negative.”
Of course not. That would’ve been too easy.
“Mr. Rogers was classified 4F due to numerous health conditions, including asthma, scarlet fever, rheumatic fever, sinusitis, chronic or frequent colds, high blood pressure, palpitations or pounding in heart, easy fatigability, heart trouble, nervous trouble of any sort, has had household contact with tuberculosis, parent or sibling with diabetes, cancer—”
Jesus.
It was like hitting bingo on every medical red flag in the manual. The comics had played it up for the story, but this? This guy shouldn’t have even made it to adulthood, let alone anywhere near a recruitment office. Zedd’s eyes tracked the century-old medical records blinking beside the photograph, cataloging failure after failure, body too weak, too compromised, too everything to be of use.
“So what’d he do?” His jaw tightened slightly before he forced himself to relax. “During the war, I mean.”
Part of him already knew the answer wouldn’t match the stories. No super-soldier program. No serum. No Howling Commandos. No last-stand sacrifice in the Arctic. Just some guy with a name that shouldn’t have mattered.
But still.
“Mr. Rogers was an award-winning artist who worked primarily in commercial illustration and propaganda posters during World War II,” ADAM supplied, utterly unaffected. “He died at age 53 in 1971.”
Of course.
Zedd exhaled, jaw tight, fingers flexing against the table. Just some guy. A sickly Brooklyn artist who never picked up a shield, never saved the world, never became anything beyond the small life he managed to carve out. Died at 53—early by today’s standards, but probably long past what anyone expected for him back then. The disappointment crept in before he could process why it was even there. Why the hell should I care?
This wasn’t his Captain America. This wasn’t the symbol, the ideal, the thing larger than itself. Just some random guy, another historical fluke. A name that never should have meant anything.
“Well, that’s that, then.” He shifted, reaching for the controls, ready to clear the screen, move on, get back to something that actually mattered.
“There is additional information that may be of interest,” ADAM cut in before he could.
Zedd stilled.
“Steven Grant Rogers married Margaret Carter in 1947 and had two children: James Howard Rogers, born 1949, and Sarah Elizabeth Rogers, born 1951.”
His hand hovered over the holotable controls as he froze in place.
Wait.
The name had already hit, but the second one slammed into his brain like a loaded shotgun firing at close range. Margaret… as in Peggy Carter?
The words came out fast, instinct first, thought later, his mouth still catching up to the wreckage in his skull. No way, no fucking way. His stomach turned over itself, like his body knew before his brain did, some deep, ugly recognition already winding through his nerves.
Peggy and Steve and James and—
His chest felt tight. “Go on,” he said, voice steady in a way that felt like a lie.
The holotable shifted, flickering as decades unfolded in front of him. Family lines stretching, branching, pulling forward, dragging his brain with them whether he was ready or not.
“I have tracked the Rogers family line through subsequent generations,” ADAM said, like this was just another report. Like he wasn’t laying out history rewritten in real time. “James Howard Rogers had three children, the youngest of whom, Robert Rogers, continued the family line.”
Zedd exhaled through his nose, too sharp, staring at the names, at the dates, at the impossible tangible reality of them. Real people, real histories. Not a story.
Real.
“By the fifth generation, in 2060,” ADAM continued, because ADAM never stopped, never paused to process, never needed to breathe through this shit, “Michael Rogers married Elena Astrovik, a woman of Slovakian descent.”
The tree stretched further. More names. More lives.
Forward.
“The Rogers family line continued through eight subsequent generations,” ADAM went on, the table shifting, flickering through faces and names.
His jaw locked. This wasn’t just some random convergence of names. This was the same bloodline. It had kept moving, kept spreading, kept reaching forward, one generation after another, until—
ADAM highlighted a new name. One.
“Of particular note,” ADAM said, crisp and clinical, “the current youngest son of the Rogers branch, born April 17, 2160, left Earth in 2176 at the age of 16 to settle in New Abraham.”
His stomach dropped.
New Abraham.
His pulse kicked up, fast and hard, heartbeat suddenly loud in his ears. “Arkadia?” The word ripped out of him, like he was already bracing for the answer.
“Correct.”
“His parents?” His voice barely sounded like his own.
“Jonathan and Sarah Rogers remained on Earth,” ADAM responded. “Available records indicate they supported their son’s application to the colonial development program but did not accompany him.”
So. Not a refugee. Not running from something. Just… looking for something. A new place. A new start.
His body moved before his brain did, leaning toward the holotable as the display shifted again, filling the air with raw data. Colonial records. Work history. Mundane details, except they weren’t. They couldn’t be.
“What’s he doing now?” He barely let ADAM start a statement before the next words shoved out of him. “Where is he?”
His brain was already shaping the answer before he had it. Already seeing the pieces snap together before they fully existed and then the final display appeared.
Zedd’s mind went blank.
A photo.
A face.
Familiar in ways that hit like a sucker punch to the ribs.
Thin. Serious. Trying too hard to look confident. He stared at the ID photo like it might change if he looked at it long enough.
Then the medical records populated.
His stomach fucking sank.
Asthma. Immunodeficiency. Bad eyesight. A long list of small, shitty breakdowns, a body that had been fighting itself from the start. A genetic time bomb set to go off generations later.
His gaze flicked toward the cabinet.
Thirty-five vials.
Five complete treatments.
The serum.
The same one that had rewritten history once.
His eyes snapped back to the holotable. To the name.
Zedd’s mouth felt dry.
“You’re telling me that my Captain America is—”
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
“CALEB!”
Caleb Lance Rogers hesitated a second too long in the doorway, the weight of exhaustion dragging at his limbs, before Adele shot him a pointed look that dragged him the rest of the way inside. Adele stood in the doorway of the medical office, datapad in hand, expression caught somewhere between professional concern and exasperation.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, hurrying to follow her inside. “The prototype testing ran long, and then Dev wanted to see if the new hydraulic assist could—”
“Save it,” Adele cut in, barely glancing up, already gesturing toward the exam table. “Shirt off. Let’s get this over with.”
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Self-Made Man (100 FP)
5k Words (100 FP)
ROLL: Augmentation R&D (200 FP) [Deus Ex: Human Revolution] {Crafting – Biotech}: “You have an extensive understanding of the underlying mechanics of Deus Ex: Human Revolution’s cybernetic augmentation architecture—how it works, how it could work, and what avenues to analyze for improvements. Given enough time, you could develop entirely new augmentations, pushing beyond the limits of current designs.
Your intelligence is also enhanced to handle this workload, along with all the medical expertise necessary to mess with the human body. Trauma surgery, cybernetic repair, and fixing up broken individuals? That’s just another Tuesday for you.”
ROLL: Peak ADVENT Technology (200 FP) [XCOM 2] {Knowledge – Mundane}: “Before you defected, you were working in the deepest levels of ADVENT’s black projects—where only the most trusted humans had access. You now have encyclopedic knowledge of all ADVENT technology, from their weapons and armor to their power systems, robotics, and infrastructure.
Some things are still off-limits—no deep-dive into their genetic manipulation techniques, and anything tied to ADVENT’s darkest secrets is conveniently redacted. But for everything else? If it was built by ADVENT, you know how it works, how to fix it, and how to make it better.”
Forge Points: 500