Massive Disaster III-17

The night held still, thick with heat and the faint smell of all the natural proccesses that came with modern machinining and manufacturing. Darkness was their armor, the night a thick second skin as the dirty dozen  moved fast across the field, skimming the perimeter, twelve shapes in the dark, the kind of practiced silence that meant muscle memory was doing the work before thought caught up. 

“Outer grid in three,” Collins murmured, her breath barely a ripple in the comms. The orange glow from her omni-tool flickered across her visor, numbers streaming by too fast to track unless you knew what you were looking at. “Thirty-second gap. On my mark.”

She held up five fingers.

As the last one dropped to a fist, they moved. 

Flat ground, smooth pavement, stretch of open between the maintenance structures and the first facility wall. That first jog was always the worst—felt too exposed, too much space under too much sky—but nobody hesitated. Speed beat nerves every time.

Nakamura hit the maintenance terminal first, omnitool casting dull light over his gloves. “Disabling camera cluster. Three, two…”

Four tiny red dots blinked, then stayed dark.

Rico adjusted the grip on his rifle, exhaling slow. “Not a fan of this.”

“Not a fan of what?” Rico, already working on the next system, running counter-intrusion protocols like he was checking his morning feed.

Chen swept the area with his rifle. “Security’s too light.”

“It’s a factory.” Nakamura keyed in the next access command, lip curling slightly. “Not a black site.”

“Yeah, and I’m a fuckin’ babysitter.” Chen didn’t lower his rifle. “Intel put security a notch above standard corp bullshit. I don’t like it when shit don’t match the brief.”

“No one does,” Haverson muttered. He’d been running jobs like this too long not to feel it. That wrongness, the kind that sat in the back of your skull, waiting for proof. He’d learned to listen. Still, no alarms, no mechs on high alert. Just empty corridors beyond the first door.

“We looking at a good twelve ‘fore the grid bounces back. Past that, half chance we get needled to all hell,” Collins warned, glancing up. “We good with that?”

Haverson nodded. “More than enough.”

They pressed forward, past stacked crates stamped with manufacturing codes, past machinery idling in low-power standby, rows of industrial-grade printers, conveyor lines, sealed storage.

First LOKI unit came into view, running a basic perimeter patrol. Standard surplus, blue paint scuffed around the joints, the usual military discount package for private firms. Routine. Predictable.

Collins tapped three keys. The mech shuddered, servos whining before its optics dimmed to diagnostic mode. A smooth bypass, easy work. 

Which was the problem.

“Tell me someone else is seeing this,” Haverson muttered. 

Rico set a dampener charge against the mech’s side, something to keep it in sleep mode long after they were gone. “You’re not wrong. This place should have more than just scrap metal on autopilot.”

They reached the loading bay. Entry protocols fell easy—sliding doors, soft hydraulic hiss, inside clear. Clean floors, clear pathways, workstations. Soft glow from inactive screens. Equipment laid out with the kind of precision that meant it was either well-maintained or never actually used.

“Lab’s third floor,” Collins said, eyes on her omnitool. “Northeast wing.”

They found another mech, were met another easy hack. A FENRIS unit, the thing clearly modified and repainted, yet its patrol was rerouted with a flick of Rico’ wrist. Haverson gritted his teeth.

“This ain’t right,” Rico said, voice low. “Feels like walking into an empty house and still smelling coffee.”

They stepped into the second-floor atrium.

The shield hit before the sensors picked anything up, a blur of royal blue and white that caught the dim emergency lighting as it ricocheted off a support column, slamming into Rodriguez with enough force to fold him backward over a railing. It rebounded at an impossible angle, caught by a figure that dropped from the shadows above.

“What the f-“

The rest of Jackson’s startled outburst died as the shield-wielder launched forward, moving with speed that didn’t make sense. One moment at the far end of the atrium, the next crashing into their formation like a battering ram.

It moved. Not a person, not in the way a person should move. Too fast, almost like steps were getting skipped in real time. The shield swung out and someone else hit the floor hard enough to sound permanent. The figure moved like nothing Haverson had seen before—not Alliance military, not corporate security, not even Spectre training. He blinked and the attacker was already on them, shield lashing out in controlled arcs that dropped Chen and Li before they could bring weapons to bear.

“Contact!” Nakamura shouted, opening fire with his assault rifle.

Rounds went wide. 

Or maybe they didn’t, but either way, the air twisted, shimmered just faintly enough to make you think your eyes weren’t worth shit as some kind of barrier sprung up in front of it. The rounds that should’ve landed didn’t, the next few ricocheted, and then the shield was swinging again.

Haverson saw a glimpse of the armor—blue, with a white “V” on the the chestplate catching dim light—before someone else hit the ground, choking on breath that wouldn’t come.

It was like watching physics take a holiday.

The shield caught Rico under the chin with enough force to make a grown man reconsider his career choices. He hit the floor, legs folding out from under him as the armored figure rolled out of the impact, twisting mid-motion into a leg sweep that cut Williams down like he was standing in knee-high water. 

No wasted effort. No excess movement.

Just motion to result, one seamless line.

Haverson barely got the words out before things got worse. “Fall back! Colli-“

Without the words even falling all the way out of his mouth, Collins was already sprinting as soon as she heard the first syllable of her name called, omnitool flickering as she worked extraction, fingers moving like she was keeping up with an argument no one else could hear. Jackson threw a burst of fire down the corridor, but it was like shooting at smoke. 

That thing—man, had to be a man, from the build—moved like shards weren’t his problem, just a minor scheduling conflict.

The armored man paused for just a fraction of a second, head tilting slightly as if listening to something. Then he hurled the shield again, this time at what looked like an empty corridor.

The shield hit nothing but air, ricocheting off the wall at an angle that should have sent it careening away. Against any bet Haverson would have made, all credits on the table, the metal bounced off a support beam, took a sharp left that should’ve been impossible, then sailed into Nakamura’s chest like it was the only thing in the whole damn building that mattered. The brief distortion of light gave him away before he even hit the floor. Stealth field shorted, flickered, gone.

“How in the flying blue fuck—” Chen started, but it wasn’t a real question.

Haverson fired, the man not even bothering to waste the fraction of a second it would take to be confused. One-handed, pistol snapping up fast and clean.

Three shots.

The armored figure should’ve moved back, should’ve hesitated, but instead, he came forward. The shield, somehow returning back to his grip without him even looking as he caught it, simply blurred. Blue flashed, and Haverson’s ribs took the brunt of it. He went down hard, the breath punched out of him, armor groaning in protest.

He hit the ground, rolled, came up with his backup pistol already drawn—only to find the attacker engaged with Collins and Jackson, moving between them with a grace that belied his size. It wasn’t perfect technique—Haverson could see moments of hesitation, brief lapses where the movements weren’t quite as fluid as they should be—but the raw speed and power more than compensated.

Collins went down hard, omnitool arm twisted at an angle nature never intended. Jackson lasted longer, enhanced combat reflexes giving him just enough edge to avoid the first strike. The second caught him center mass, the shield folding him like paper.

Haverson fired twice, the shots going wide as his target blurred into motion again. He adjusted his aim, tracking the movement—

Something cold pressed against the base of his skull. Thin, sharp, unmistakably a blade.

“I wouldn’t,” said a flat voice behind him.

Haverson froze, pistol half-raised, as the blue-armored figure finished with Jackson and turned toward him. The shield settled at his side, revealing the full profile of his armor—sleek, advanced, nothing Haverson recognized from any military catalog.

The blade at his neck didn’t waver. Its wielder, when Haverson dared a sidelong glance, was equally unfamiliar—Asian features, black tactical gear, eyes that held nothing but cold assessment.

“Victory Innovations doesn’t appreciate uninvited guests,” the man with the sword said.

The blue-armored figure approached them properly now, helmet still concealing his features entirely. “Was that a joke?” His movements had slowed now, more measured, as if the combat rush was fading.

The hand around the other side of his neck tensed, and Haverson could somehow feel the way the room tensed as the armored man snapped off a sharp salute, his question forgotten. “All neutralized,” he reported, voice amplified slightly through the helmet’s speaker. “No casualties.”

“You missed one,” the swordsman replied, nudging Haverson with the blade. “Sloppy.”

The blue figure tilted his head. “I left him for you.” He paused, actually shrugging. “Partner tactics, remember?”

A quiet sound. Maybe amusement. Maybe not. “Convenient excuse.”

The blade didn’t move. “Your employer. Who.”

Haverson didn’t move, the lie spilling out like he believed it with all his life. “Standard contract. Escrow payment. No names.”

“Trident Solutions,” the swordsman said, like it wasn’t a guess. “Ilium-based shell company. Three layers deep, but the equipment mods match.” A slight twist of the blade. “And you left their tracking signature active in your omnitool’s encryption layer.”

Haverson kept his face still. Didn’t mean his stomach wasn’t twisting. Either this man was bluffing, or his intel was far better than anything corporate security should have access to.

The blue-armored figure stepped closer, and Haverson got his first good look at the “V” emblazoned on his chest—not painted on, but inlaid somehow, glowing with faint energy that pulsed in time with some hidden mechanism.

“They after the VEST prototypes?” the figure asked, voice younger than Haverson had expected.

“Above my pay grade,” Haverson replied automatically, not bothering with a lie this time when they already knew this much. “We were sent for fabrication processes. Molecular integration techniques.”

The sword remained steady, but Haverson could feel a change in the air—a subtle shift in the swordsman’s posture. “Titanium-V,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

The blue figure’s head snapped toward his partner. “My shield? How would they even know about—”

“Not now,” the swordsman cut him off. To Haverson: “Your extraction team is already compromised. Your choices are simple—unconscious or dead.”

Haverson had survived ten years in this business by knowing when to fold. “Unconscious sounds preferable.”

The sword withdrew, replaced by a sharp pain at the side of his neck—injector, not blade.

Fast-acting sedative, from the way his vision immediately began to tunnel.

As the edges of the world started pulling inward, he heard them again.

“You’re improving,” the swordsman noted, tone unreadable.

A mechanical hiss. Helmet depressurizing. Haverson caught a glimpse—purple eyes, young face, easy smile that felt out of place in all the worst ways.

“Thanks,” the kid said, voice lighter now. “You’re talking more.”

Then nothing.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

“Hmmmm…” Zedd stared at the holographic display, fingers on one hand rubbing his clean-shaven chin, while his other hand was busy manipulating the molecular structure floating in front of him with absent precision.

The same absent precision that kept the Micromanipulator gloves firmly in use at all times in his lab.

“We’re looking at maintained cellular integrity after severe and rapid genetic alteration steady at 97.2%,” ADAM reported back, his snarky assistant’s voice a comfort. “Genetic degradation reduced to negligible levels. Cronenberg likelihood effectively zero.”

A hard grunt spilled out of his mouth, something that managed to sound both eager and tired all at the same time. Zedd’s eyes flicked over to the side as he took in the way the MELD nanites shifted in the sim, blue shimmers aligning finally into something that didn’t look ready to eat itself. “Fucking finally,” he muttered, spinning the holo with a flick of his wrist. “What was that? Seventy-six tries?”

“Seventy-seven,” ADAM corrected, because of course he would. “Iteration thirty-five almost made it too, but collapsed during stress sim. Exploded, actually.”

“Details.” Zedd waved a hand dismissively, but the satisfaction in his chest couldn’t be suppressed entirely. They’d done it. After months of failures, adjustments, and frustrated rewrites, the MELD adaptation was finally stable enough for practical application.

Not the same as the original MELD from his fragmented memories—that technology had relied on elerium, which didn’t exist in this universe as far as he could tell. But this version, adapted to incorporate his modified isotope of element zero — Eezo-Ψ — in carefully controlled configurations, achieved the same fundamental purpose.

The nature of MELD was how frustrating it was for him to figure out even with his experience with the odd nano-substance he had been studying and incorporated into his aviators. Even with almost six years under the crushing hand of ADVENT research.

A programmable bio-nanite substrate.

That’s what it was. Designed to integrate with both biological and cybernetic systems. He knew that much, even without research. He also knew that it was designed to do so to enable both rapid regeneration of biological tissue, modification of organisms at the genetic level and relatively easy cybernetic augmentation.

In short, it was a fucking bitch to figure out. Without ADAM’s help, he’d still be working his ass off on it, but in a few months, he had workable batches of the peptide-based self-assembling self-repairing protein nanostructures he called his MELD.

Hell, if he hadn’t had so much experience working with nanomaterials already, he might never have even gotten that far. 

Truthfully, what he had in front of him wasn’t anywhere close to the true MELD he knew ADVENT had, the kind that could rewrite humans and aliens into entirely different species, meld them together, or split specific traits into subspecies.

That MELD let you play God.

This one kinda let you be Jesus.

Only thing was… “why is it blue?”

He knew why. The Eezo-Ψ, of course.

But still.

Either way, he’d figured it out.

A bridge between organic and synthetic. A medium that allowed seamless integration of mechanical components with living tissue. The holy grail of enhancement technology.

Before he had said there was only one problem, and that was kinda half true. The second real problem was that some people were simply more compatible with it than others. My fault for thinking I could substitute and nothing would go wrong.

That wasn’t necessarily too bad as he had decent compatibility. Good to know for when I wanna ‘juice’ myself up. Still, it wasn’t a perfect method of enhancement as it couldn’t really be standardized like the Rebirth serum was. Too much of the stuff and you risk some fucky shit happening in cellular structure.

He leaned back, muscles protesting after hours in the same position. His gaze drifted to the other project that had appeared on his holotable the night before—an entire compendium of designs for androids, or “synthezoids” as the documents called them. Because they were so lifelike, they were effectively synthetic humanoids.

Effectively. If their designs made any fucking sense, at least.

Literally, the level of complication in the neural structure alone and the coding necessary. He couldn’t imagine doing this even if he spent a whole year on it. On top of that, some of the construction methodology would require at least a month building the tools to build the tools he would need.

No, that was going to the ignore box for now.

“Boss,” ADAM’s voice cut through his thoughts, “I’ve completed analysis of the MELD’s interaction with psionic-capable neural structures. Simulations indicate 78% enhancement of baseline capabilities when properly integrated.”

Zedd nodded absently, only half-listening as his mind drifted to the other weird information that had popped into his head the same night he’d found the documents. Information on how to make improved “circuits” for Virtual Inte—fuck it, he was tired of saying that. It was AI.

Being real, he was pretty sure ADAM was damn near an AI, if not an actual one already. Only thing is that these circuits he knew how to make now would definitely upgrade ADAM. Upgrade to what, though. It let programs learn and develop personality to the point of sapience, but he didn’t have control of said personality.

Hell, just outfitting AY-E and AY-U with them would give them personality. He glanced over at the hovering drone he’d repainted in white and given a circular shell, versus her blocky brother who loved his upgraded treads and preferred to stay grounded. More personality than they had already, at least.

More than that, though, he was pretty sure it would make ADAM portable, able to function on any device with enough space. Would be a tighter fit, sure, but definitely useful. Zedd narrowed his eyes. More to think about later, I guess.

“Returning to current applications,” ADAM continued, “I’ve identified potential synergies between MELD integration and the bio-amp technology you’ve acquired. The standard Asari designs rely on external amplification, but with MELD as a mediating factor, we could potentially bypass the need for external hardware completely.”

His attention snapped back to ADAM’s droning. We could do that. We could definitely do that, couldn’t we? “Yeah, exactly. Bio-amps are bullshit workarounds to turn other races into wannabe Asari. Fuck that, ADAM. We don’t have to bother with it. Big clunky internal hardware for a problem we can just… self-modify.” His fingers poked through the floating Asari amp schematic, deliberately making it glitch. “They’re trying to amplify from the outside like idiots. We’re just enhancing what’s already there.”

“A targeted MELD delivery,” ADAM continued, like Zedd hadn’t just said the same thing, “at key psionic centers creates a direct neural—”

“Yeah, ADAM, I just said that.” Zedd yanked Caleb’s brain scan forward, pointing at the bright spots that had lit up like Christmas during that first procedure. “Small cut here—” he jabbed at the pineal gland, “—another here.” His finger sliced across the limbic system. “Drop in MELD, close ’em up, and boom. Self-enhancing psionic capability that gets stronger with use.”

Of course he wasn’t going to do it to Caleb, the guy was already a natural psionic and with Rebirth serum in him, he’d likely get stronger. But others? Others were definitely an option. “Like a muscle. Especially like a muscle, because it does one thing good. So, like putting your finger over a hose, or… I guess a pressure washer would have been a better example… remind me to take a nap.” He snorted at himself.

“Will do. And you think this is a good idea, boss?” ADAM’s snarky tone didn’t change, but the question hit different somehwow.

Zedd stopped mid-motion, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the edge of the holotable as he stared off at nothing. “I think it’s an idea,” he said after a second. “And I’m good at making my ideas real.” 

He shrugged. “And that’s what matters.”

The sim cycled into the next phase—MELD latching onto neurons, the blue glow painting his face as he watched the dance of artificial evolution. Not perfect. Not ADVENT-level. 

But nobody else in this universe was even close.

That counted for something, right?