Massive Disaster II-2
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Zedd watched the shuttle lift, twin flares of blue streaking through the bruised sky. His omnitool feed caught it in jittery detail, a wide-angle pull from the perimeter cam, raw contrast and shaky stabilization lending the shot a low-budget, documentary feel. The hull glinted once, a silvered needle, then dulled as it reached a good height, shrinking in the distance in no time at all.
"Departure logged, boss," chimed the house security overlay.
His lips twitched, half a smirk, maybe, but the shape couldn’t hold. “Thanks, ADAM.” The smirk ghosted, leaving the dull aftertaste of something unfinished. His fingers found the edge of the workbench and started tapping—tap-tap-tap—restless, uneven, breaking off mid-pattern when his brain caught his hands lagging behind it.
“Non-eezo hovertech might’ve been a bit much to drop on her, huh?”
No shit.
Too much was putting it soft. He’d clocked her reaction the second her face went slack—the parted lips, the tremor in her hands as she reached for the floating prototype. Not awe. Not even fear. Just… dislocation. Like he’d peeled back the universe’s curtain and shown her the scaffolding holding it up.
And he was the scaffolding.
His breath, dragged and slow, scraped out rough. His palm flattened against the cold alloy of the bench, fingers splayed wide like he could siphon some steadiness from the metal. His knuckles blanched. For a second, the tremor tried to creep back in with a flicker of muscle, sharp and disloyal. His hand jerked, once, fingers twitching in a quick stutter before he crushed it down, forced his palm flat, and ground the shake out. The multitool slipped from his grip and bounced sharp against the table’s edge. It clattered to the floor, the sound cutting through the quiet—thin, hollow, and gone.
His eyes snagged on it for a beat. Then he looked away.
She wasn’t supposed to show up. He hadn’t planned for her. Hell, he didn’t plan for anyone.
One month in this too-big house—glass and concrete and hollow space—and he’d made himself scarce. Ran errands solo. Kept his head down. Hit New Abraham maybe twice. Let Nina drag him through that surprise party she swore wasn’t a party, let the happy military couple play host and fuss over him in the house the two of them and Kira had pooled their creds to buy, with even old man Colburn showing up along with one of the guys from the hub and another one of Nina‘s friends he actually liked. Smiled where it fit. Dipped out when it didn’t.
Enough face time to be seen. Enough distance to be left alone.
They let him have that distance. Because they thought he was… what? Recovering?
The word landed sour.
The rumors had been thick enough to taste. “He’s drying out.” “Still sick from the stims.” “Kid’s lucky he’s not dead.”
Lucky. Sure. That was the narrative.
Better than the ones still scared of him.
His shoulders rolled back, a slow, deliberate motion. The air tasted stale, recycled one too many times through the house’s overtaxed filtration system. He should fix that. Rewire the vents, maybe rig a secondary oxygen scrubber from spare parts. You’re distracted again, he scolded himself, with a shake of his head. Worst part was, it wasn’t that they thought he was using. It was that he couldn’t explain he wasn’t.
Not in any way they’d get.
He wasn’t high.
Wasn’t crashing. Wasn’t even craving. He wasn’t anything they’d think made sense.
“Addiction’s not really a thing for me anymore.”
Yeah. Try saying that out loud. Try surviving the silence after—the question it would plant in their mouths, the one they’d be too polite to chew on but would never stop thinking—how?
His eyes, like they had their own mind, tracked to the lab’s back corner.
The fridge.
Small. Sterile. Fingerprint lock. Nothing remarkable on the outside. But inside? Vials. Racks of them. Most just prototypes, formulas from the long grind. But four…
Four were something else.
Joining the new finished product was Pax.
He hadn’t said the name aloud when he made it. Just typed it into the file on his omnitool, saved it, and closed it. Felt like a joke, honestly. The thing that ended the wanting, the craving, the biochemical hooks digging into him.
Burned them out clean.
And in exchange?
Hell.
His hand dragged down his face, rough over stubble, calloused fingers scraping his own skin like he could scrub the weight out. “Too fuckin’ much,” he muttered, voice low, dry, barely more than breath. “Way too fuckin’ much.”
Pax made sure of that. Pax. Peace. Peace that carved through him like a sandblaster. Peace that didn’t ease the craving so much as scorch it, hard enough that cravings couldn’t ever possibly dig their hooks in.
Anything else? Plenty.
And he’d had plenty.
The sweats. The cramps. That special flavor of nausea that makes you wish you’d just puke already and get it over with. And of course… my poor toilet.
Oh, and the other thing. The fun thing. The part where his body decided it forgot how to regulate anything and picked dissociation as the new factory default.
So, no, he wasn’t on stims. Not that I necessarily need them for the foreseeable future.
And, no, he wasn’t in withdrawal. Hell, in a real sense, he didn’t have anything to withdraw from in his system. Not really. Not in any major way his brain recognized. He’d just… burned out the part that ever did.
His hand dropped from his face, fingers twitching, curling and unfurling like a glitching subroutine, like they occasionally did even after a month out of the hospital. The tremor was back, light, but insistent, buzzing under his skin like a live wire.
Funny enough, it had little to do with what he’d been juiced on.
Well—two thirds was mostly nothing.
Apparently, muscles didn’t love it when you ran them past every limit they had. Oh, and also getting shot. They don’t like that much either, come to think of it. Zedd’s jaw locked as he rolled his wrist, cartilage clicking with the motion. Ignore it. Move on.
His eyes landed on the far workbench. The mess of stripped parts, loose wiring, and half-dismantled casing sat in the sharp splash of cold white worklights.
Dead center of it all: the original kinesis module. Cracked open and gutted—a spread of circuit arrays, power nodes, and dampened regulators laid bare to the air. The same piece of tech he’d taken apart and rebuilt—then ripped down to nothing and rebuilt again.
And again.
And again.
Until he knew it like breathing. Until he could sketch it blindfolded, build it from memory, break it back down just to feel the shape of it in his hands. At least I can do that to one of them.
The thunk of his palm against alloy rang low and dull as he straightened, frustration snapping sharp through his teeth. To the right of him another workbench sat even as he refused to look at it, the half-dissembled stasis unit on it glaring back, unfinished.
A problem waiting to be solved.
“...Still makes no damn sense.” The words hit the concrete and went nowhere.
Zedd rubbed his thumb into his opposite palm, the familiar motion grinding tension up through his arm, knotting tight behind his shoulder blades. The air, flat and metallic, carried the burn of ozone, the scorched tang of welding, and that faint, chemical bite from coolant vapor. It clung to his clothes, his skin. He’d walked around reeking of it for days.
The basement sprawled around him, ordered chaos in cold concrete and steel, a hundred square meters of sleepless nights tinkering. Four benches, stainless steel and pitted with scorch marks, carved the space into stations. Every surface drowned in loose components, scattered tools, and half-assembled projects, some still hot from the last round of work.
A holo-terminal embedded into the nearest bench displayed his playlist; a pale-blue list a hundred songs deep and almost twice that old, a time capsule to the Old Earth he generally remembered. Against the back wall, modular storage loomed with six meters of stacked compartments, transparent crates, and labeled bins packed with tools and spare parts. Some hung half-open, cables trailing over the edges in limp coils. One drawer sat crooked in its rail, a scatter of bolts and microspanners dumped at its base.
Further down, a console pulsed with soft sapphire light, live diagnostics scrolling across the screen in clean, tight script, locked to his omnitool’s signature. To the right, a repair drone he was modifying for his needs; exposed frames and open panels showing the scars of his latest modifications, sat dead in their bays.
After a month, the whole space felt like his. Marked in weld burns and scraped concrete, bruises on his knuckles and ash crusted into his sleeves. Almost everything in here was something he’d chosen or built.
Almost… His steps slowed.
Off-center, sleek and cold, a slab of matte-black glass caught his attention. The surface was perfect, nearly seamless and stood untouched, the edges trimmed in thin silver bands that caught the light and would have reflected if not for how dark it was.
Zedd’s hand found the smooth surface with a familiar motion. His palm skimmed it, heat from his skin leaving a passing smear of contact.
And the surface flared to life.
A perfect top-down model of the kinesis module floated above in holographic blue holo-light that lit his face up, every piece suspended in hard light—the coils, the power cell, every single peace. A twist of his wrist, and the assembly burst apart into a dozen components, each tagged with specs he’d pulled during the teardown. He rotated the lens array with a flick of his fingers, isolating the fracture line he’d caused with shuddering hands and sealed back shut with spare omni-gel.
This table made it too easy.
Every adjustment, every simulation… smooth, instant, like it knew where he wanted to go before he even finished the thought. Not guessing, though. No, he had to move, had to control it with a motion he thought made sense. But once he did, the table followed.
No lag. No loading screens.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
And that was the weird part.
He knew tech. Consoles, omni-tools, diagnostic scanners—always the same: clunky interfaces, hardwired commands. But this? This was pure instinct. No command lines, no plugins. It read his gestures like he’d trained on it for years.
But he hadn’t.
His fingers stilled over the projection, and the module froze mid-spin.
He waved his hand again, diffusing it, and blue holo-light ignited in layered projections, a cascade of data mapping up the air. His omnitool’s hue, because it was connected, but also… I think I just like blue.
He couldn’t find the brand of this terminal anywhere and he definitely hadn’t built it.
No, he’d found it… if you could even call it that.
Because it hadn’t been here when he moved in.
And he knew because he’d looked. Every inch of this place, he’d torn through it, basement to rafters, scanned it for bugs too. This architectural nightmare—his so-called “gift” from Governor Shen-Abraham.
“For your service to the colonies of Arkadia IV,” the man had said, a month and a half ago, a whole three and a half weeks before the paperwork on the company idea Shen Abrahama had been finalized.
They called it a reward, this and the money and the new privileges and the new job title. It looked tempting but he knew it was a leash, if not a collar. What do they call that… golden handcuffs?
But with his old place a wreck, nearly burnt to the ground with his burners still going while he had gone on his rampage, and honestly… it was a lot of money, he’d taken the offer.
And the second the place was his, he came down here.
Just to look.
And the second he stepped inside, it hit him. All at once.
Like a slip in the world’s gears. A full-body click.
And when he blinked—
It was in front of him.
The table. The modules. The drones.
...Because of course it wasn’t just the one thing.
CLANG!
The sharp metallic impact rattled down the hall, dragging Zedd’s attention sideways. His head tipped, eyes narrowing as he caught movement from the corridor leading into the deeper sections of the basement.
“Oi. You two!” his voice carried, annoyance lacing every syllable.
The response was immediate. Two mechanical figures rolled into view, the soft hum of motorized wheels whispering over concrete. The first one, shorter and scuffed from more than a few collisions, stopped too fast, its clawed gripper twitching like his own digits.
The second—taller, a little cleaner—slid in beside it, its single-lens camera tilting with what Zedd could only describe as guilt. They froze as they spotted him. A pair of unmoving metal idiots parked like kids caught stealing from the cookie jar.
Then, after a painfully awkward beat, the taller one gave the shorter a nudge—a small mechanical prod. The shorter drone twitched, wheels shifting half a centimeter forward before stuttering to a halt, its gripper retracting slightly in a motion that felt painfully sheepish.
Zedd ran his hand through his already-messed up rat’s nest of hair, fingers digging into his scalp as he exhaled a long, slow sigh through his teeth. “...Really?”
Both of the bots had been part of the same headache package that brought him the table and modules. Just popped into existence with the rest of the weird his brain kept dumping into reality. Because why stop at knowledge and samples of physics-breaking tech? Why not throw in robot arms with the personalities of guilty golden retrievers?
His arms folded tight against his chest, brows pinching. “Seriously, what the hell are you two, anyway?”
They weren’t drones, not really. They looked like drones—rolling bases, jointed arms, camera lenses for eyes. But their software? That was where things got strange.
They weren’t running on any known framework. No known driver stack. And their learning protocols? Adaptive as hell. Too adaptive.
And they understood him. Like, not just commands, because he’d tested that. He could just talk to them, normal, plain speech, and they’d get it.
They’d react. They’d respond. Which, sure, natural language interfaces did.
But not so intuitively. Whatever genius had built them had to be some sort of world-changing megamind. And on top of that, he still wasn’t sure why they felt… familiar. Something about them itched. Something he should remember but couldn’t reach.
Zedd’s eyes narrowed, arms crossing tighter. “Alright.” His voice dropped into that slow, unimpressed register—the one he used for shit he knew was about to annoy him. “What’d you two break this time?”
Both drones locked up further.
He could almost hear the “Who, us?” energy radiating from their barely-moving frames.
Then Zedd blinked once, the tension in his expression shifting as a different sigh—this one fully aimed at himself—escaped his throat. "...Yeah." His eyes half-lidded, voice dragging flat with self-annoyance. “Right. You can’t speak.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Forgot about that.”
“No worries, boss,” came the synthetic drawl, smooth and assured, the words rolling out with that effortless, clipped cadence Zedd had come to expect.
He turned, though he didn’t need to. The red-tinted sphere made up of millions of tiny, shifting granules forming a seamless, floating projection that hovered above the holo-table, a very familiar sight by now.
“Oh?” Zedd’s brow arched, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Just an extra toolbox,” the voice continued from unseen speakers, casual, dry, and faintly amused. “They knocked it over. I’ll have them clean up.”
Zedd smirked, tossing a glance toward the ceiling. “Appreciate it, ADAM.”
“You got it, boss.”
ADAM. The final little curveball his reality-breaking mess of a brain had spat out. ‘Little,’ at least in terms of physical size. Everything else? Not so much.
The first time he’d seen Adam, it hadn’t been this floating construct—no sleek interface, no fancy projection. It was a chip ontop of the holotable. A single, palm-sized data core that had to be at least a hundred years out of date by the size, etched with four letters: A.D.A.M.
And the second he’d touched it? He’d known.
Advanced Defense and Authority Monitor.
Security suite. Command hub. Watchdog.
...And a surprisingly good conversationalist.
Useful.
He hadn’t wasted a second. Hooked the chip straight into the basement servers, spun up the framework, and within minutes, Adam was online and chatting back like they’d known each other for years.
And now? Now they did know each other.
Zedd talked to him nigh-constantly when he wasn’t locked in on reverse engineering an idea or concept or taking something apart. He talked to Adam almost as much as he talked to himself, neither of which was probably all that healthy, but... eh.
A thought surfaced, tugging at his attention. His eyes flicked sideways, voice shading a little sharper. “Hey, Adam. You... uh, you hid your voice, right? Around Nina, yeah?”
Adam’s reply came instantly, laid-back tone giving way to clean, direct precision. “Of course, boss. You told me to.”
Zedd’s tongue clicked against his teeth. “Right. Just checkin’.”
Even though he knew Adam wasn’t really an AI, not truly sapient in the way they were supposed to be, the program still spoke too smoothly and responsively half the time. And he probably didn’t need to give his girl another reason to stress out anyway. Give it a few weeks and he’d announce ADAM to her as something he programmed and modified, but…not now.
Not yet.
His personal issues aside, the council’s whole specific ban on AI? Yeah. Zedd had opinions about that. Sure, the Geth and all, but the Quarians sounded like fucking idiots. Going reverse Terminator and still losing after shooting first… what did you think would happen?
He leaned against the edge of the bench, arms folding, his voice dipping into a mocking lilt. “'AI is a direct and present threat to organic life wherever it is developed,'” he quoted, laying on the scorn thick. “Yeah, sure, pal. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
He could still see that Salarian professor on the extranet—glazed eyes, veins popping, the whole lecture frothing with sermon-level vitriol. The guy had practically foamed at the mouth by the end. Zedd hadn’t just watched the speech. He’d dug. Read everything he could find. Tapped through articles, abstracts, and deep-dive threads on forums old enough to be fossils.
Because something about the council line?
It didn’t add up a—
Zedd’s eye twitched as he felt something attempt to shift in his mind, only to… sputter out or something, going nowhere. He bit back an exasperated sigh. What the hell is it n-
Bip!
The sharp ping of his omnitool sliced through his thoughts.
Zedd’s gaze dropped, thumb flicking over the display as a new message scrolled into view.
From: Urdnot Wrex
To: Victory Innovations
Subject: That Toy of Yours
Hey, whelp.
That piece you used to pulp the first three four-eyes. I want one. Built for me. Built right.
200,000 credits.
Don’t waste my time.
Zedd stared. Blinked once. Then squinted, head tilting like the message might make more sense from a different angle.
"...The fuck kinda name is ‘Urdnot’?"
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
First Blood (150 FP)
M-M-MULTIKILL (300 FP)
Rigged For Yor Pleasure (100 FP)
Extranet Killed the Internet Star (50 FP)
5k Words x 3 (300 FP)
ROLL: Holotable (50 FP) [Marvel Cinematic Universe Vol. 1] {Toolkit - Mundane}: “A sleek, interactive holographic table capable of generating 3D models of items, weapons, and events. You can study, analyze, and even reconstruct complex objects using these projections. The table’s holograms are fully manipulatable by touch, offering a new level of precision in your work. Comes with customizable hologram colors to suit your aesthetic.”
ROLL: Context Problem (400 FP) [Ben 10 0.1] {Protection}: “Your abilities defy classification, and the world around you can't make heads or tails of them. Magic, science, life energy—who knows? Onlookers and enemies will consistently misinterpret your powers, always assuming something that fits their worldview. Their confusion works to your advantage, masking your capabilities and keeping weaknesses hidden. It might take them years to figure out what you’re really doing—if they ever do.”
ROLL: Utility Mods (200 FP) [Dead Space] {Toolkit - Mundane}: “A pair of technological marvels straight from the future, mounted to your palm. The Kinesis Module lets you lift and manipulate objects remotely, holding smaller ones effortlessly and controlling larger, rail-mounted objects with precision. With a flick of your wrist, you can throw objects hard enough to impale a target. The Stasis Module freezes objects or creatures in place, enveloping them in a temporal field that halts their motion entirely. Ideal for work—and for making fights very, very unfair.”
FAIL: Legendary Master - Intellectual (600 FP) [RimWorld] {Knowledge - Intelligence}: “You are a research savant, capable of unraveling any technological mystery. Reverse-engineering is second nature, and with a clear goal, you can design blueprints for virtually anything, no matter how advanced. Research projects you undertake are twice as fast and so intuitively structured that even primitive societies could follow your designs and reach the stars—if they survive the journey.”
ROLL: Digital Ally | Dum-E and U (100 FP) [MCU Vol. 1] {Assistants}: “A semi-autonomous AI and a pair of tireless mechanical helpers. The AI isn’t truly sapient, but it can multitask like a pro—managing base operations, coordinating robots, and relaying tactical data, all simultaneously.
Meanwhile, Dum-E and U, your loyal robotic arms on treads, specialize in mechanical and electronic fabrication. They’ve got excellent pattern recognition, but you’ll need to watch how you phrase your commands—these guys follow instructions to the letter, even when they shouldn’t.”
FAIL: German Engineering (200 FP) [Smash Up] {Quality - Durability}: “Precision, efficiency, and resilience—everything you build is just a cut above. Your creations run smoother, last longer, and waste less energy. Expect a 10–20% across-the-board improvement in durability, efficiency, and performance. If you built it, it’s built to last.”
ROLL: Minor Blessings (100 FP) [Percy Jackson] {Quality - Efficiency}: “A god has taken a slight interest in you, bestowing a minor boon within their domain. This is a diminished version of what a demigod might wield—useful, but not earth-shattering. Think along the lines of breathing underwater, lucid dreaming, or a vague extra sense. The god’s interest is mild, so unless you prove yourself, you can’t expect divine intervention. (Example: Hermes - Silvertongue, granting charm and persuasion that can smooth most conversations). Can be taken multiple times for additional boons.”
Forge Points: 50
