Massive Disaster II-16 (Patreon)

The third guy moved.

Zedd didn’t react fast enough. Not this time.

The shift is there—the weight drop, the tell in his stance—but Zedd was still shaking off the raw tingle of the stun strike, still feeling the aftershocks as it crawled through his ribs, and the bastard’s already reaching.

Gun? Knife? Doesn’t matter. It really didn’t. 

Zedd closed the distance before he could even think about it in any way that wasn’t raw instinct, catching the guy’s wrist just as the weapon came free of his jacket. Not clean, not precise, just a sharp yank that wrenched his arm sideways, hard enough to rip the man off-balance. The guy stumbled forward, his free hand shooting out to brace against Zedd’s chest as a yelp left his throat, raw and surprised.

Mistake.

Zedd’s forehead slammed hard into the center of his face.

The crunch is ugly. 

Wet. 

The guy jerked back violently, half a strangled sound tearing from his throat as his nose collapsed under the impact, blood spurting down and spraying over his lip, streaking red across Zedd’s collar and splattering on dark skin. His body locked up for a second, frozen between pain and shock, his fingers twitching uselessly around the weapon.

Zedd slappedit out of his grip.

But there’s no time—because the second bastard was already lunging, a flash of steel catching the glow of a passing drone overhead. Knife. Compact. Tactical. Military-grade. A blade meant to end fights fast.

"Don’t kill him!" Someone shouted.

Zedd barely registered the rough raspy yell, barely processed where it’s coming from, because the guy’s already mid-strike and Zedd was already reacting.

Not away. Toward.

The first guy’s still reeling, blood pouring from his face, but Zedd wrenched him forward anyway. 

A human shield.

The hesitation is immediate. A sharp half-stutter in the attacker’s movement, knife twitching mid-air, the moment of calculation clear even as it happened in real-time—how clean can I land this hit without stabbing my own man?

Too late. Zedd doesn’t let him decide.

His knee slammed up, full force, driving into the bloodied one’s stomach. The breath ripped out of him in a choked, high-pitched wheeze, body folding inward like his spine’s been cut. He doesn’t even fight it. Just collapses.

Zedd let him drop.

And turned—fast.

Too late.

The knife’s already coming.

He barely managed to get his forearm up before the blade slashed past his ribs, searing-hot, sharp. The pain flashed white in his head, nerves screaming, breath hitching in his throat, but it’s not deep. Not lethal. Doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t slow him.

But the next hit does.

Something heavy crashed into his side—another attacker, appearing from the left, too close, too fucking fast.

The kick slammed into his ribs, sending him staggering back, boots scraping against pavement as he struggled to keep his footing. The air burst from his lungs raw, the impact rattling through bone, his vision tilting sideways as the neon blur of the city smeared past his eyes.

Fuck—!

Another hit.

Fist, temple—hard enough to crack against his skull, rattle his vision, and send his body jerking sideways into the company shuttle. The impact sent a hollow thunk through the metal, a ripple of pain flashing through his ribs, sharp, immediate, but distant. Noise thinned. 

His ears rang. 

Something inside him wanted to sink, to slow, to stop and process—but there was no time for that.

The stun baton came down.

Zedd moved.

Ducked. Fast. Not clean. Just enough. The baton missed his skull by inches, cracking against the car door instead. A burst of blue sparks spat from the impact, lighting the dark, electric and violent. The city lights bled through it, neon reflections breaking over shattered glass and oil-slick pavement. The street smelled like hot metal, ozone, exhaust.

Someone behind him.

Close.

Zedd shoved forward. Hard.

A body staggered into him—a knife, glinting just past his ribs. His arm snapped up on instinct, slamming across the bastard’s throat. No thought. No hesitation. Just an ugly, brute-force shove, using his weight, using the hard snap of his forearm to crush the breath out of him. The guy choked, stumbling back. Not fast enough.

Zedd followed through.

Elbow. Down. A brutal, sharp drive into the wrist holding the blade. A crack—dry, awful, familiar. The scream ripped free instantly. The knife dropped.

Zedd caught it.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t think.

His grip locked tight—reverse hold, blade down—and he drove it between the bastard’s ribs.

Fast. Deep. All the way in.

The man’s body seized up, spine arching, every muscle going rigid as the steel of his own blade carved into him. A sound—raw, strangled, wet—tore from his throat, cut short by his own lungs filling with blood. Hands clawed weakly at Zedd’s forearm. Slipping. Shaking. Useless. The pressure in his chest, the raw, frantic push against the blade, meant nothing.

Zedd yanked the knife free.

The man collapsed.

Zedd let him.

Didn’t look down.

Because he felt it before he saw it.

The space behind him shifted.

A charge—ragged, desperate, fast.

Zedd spun.

Too late.

The first guy—the one whose nose he’d crushed, whose blood still painted the pavement, still dripping from Zedd’s collar—slammed into him. Not tactical. Not trained. Just rage, all through the motion.

Zedd caught the impact.

Didn’t stop it. Redirected it.

A shift in weight. A hard yank to the side.

Momentum flipped against him. The bastard’s own speed turned into his worst enemy as Zedd ripped his balance out from under him and sent him careening head-first into the skycar.

Steel met skull.

Hard.

A metallic crunch, deep, reverberating. The whole car shuddered. Zedd felt it through his arms, through his spine. The man’s legs twitched. His body jerked violently. A wheezing, choking sound scraped out of his throat, sharp and shallow.

Zedd didn’t stop.

His fingers fisted in the bastard’s collar, yanked him forward—and slammed his head into the car again.

Harder.

A wet, meaty thud.

A second time.

The skull gave a little.

A third.

Something split.

A sound—thick, final. Like a fruit bursting under pressure. The man sagged instantly, weight going dead in Zedd’s grip. Blood smeared across the car’s surface, a slick, dark spatter painting the metal.

Zedd dropped him.

Sharp movement.

Behind.

Zedd pivoted just as the fourth guy came in from the left.

A kick—fast, brutal, driven straight into his ribs.

Air ripped from his lungs. His body jerked sideways. The pavement tilted.

Fuck!

The ground barely had time to meet him. Zedd twisted mid-fall, riding the impact like muscle memory, one knee tucking in, boots catching the pavement with a rough scrape of synthetic leather. The bastard he took down wasn’t so lucky—legs ripped out from under him, momentum sending him down faster than he could process, his head bouncing off the pavement with a dull, wet crack.

Zedd was already moving.

His elbow slammed down. Hard. Sharp bone driving into soft flesh, the bridge of the guy’s nose collapsing under the weight of it. Something broke. A muffled, ugly noise, half-choke, half-gargle. Hands twitched, weak, trying to reach, trying to push back. Zedd hit him again. And again. No hesitation, no thinking—just force, just weight, just the way his own body moved without him having to ask. The third strike wasn’t clean. The angle shifted, caught too high, more forehead than face. Didn’t matter. The damage was done. His limbs spasmed once, twice, a sick kind of shuddering, like his brain was still trying to tell his body to move.

Zedd pushed off before the body had time to go still.

Air dragged thick in his lungs, heavy with the stink of blood and the static-sharp burn of a discharged stun baton. The space was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that meant someone was missing.

Then—motion.

A flicker of movement, peripheral. The last guy.

Running.

Zedd didn’t think. His body moved first.

Fingers curled under his jacket, muscle memory guiding him through the draw before his brain caught up. The gun cleared leather, grip molding into his palm, second skin. He aimed.

Fired.

The crack tore through the night, sharp, quick, clean.

The bastard lurched mid-step. Stumbled.

Skull split open.

Momentum still carried him forward, a half-second of desperate, dying movement—then his body hit the ground. Limbs sprawled out. A smear of dark red trailed after him, stretching across pavement, soaking into the cracks.

And just like that—it was over.

Four bodies. Blood slicking concrete, pooling, cooling. The neon glare of a holo-ad cast warped, pink-tinted shadows over the mess. The stink of burnt gunpowder sat thick in the air, clinging to the back of Zedd’s throat.

His pulse wasn’t spiking. His hands weren’t shaking. His breathing wasn’t ragged. His heart wasn’t hammering. But then why did he feel so alive, so relaxed?

It was just another night.

Another fight.

Felt like Earth again. Feels like… home.

Then—

A voice. Soft. Uneven. Not afraid, not yet, but not okay.

“…Zee?”

Zedd turned.

Nina stood there, just outside the spill of blood, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, like she wasn’t sure if she needed to step forward or step back. Her gun was half-raised—but not at him. Not at anything. Just… there.

Her expression—fuck.

She wasn’t looking at the bodies like they were just bodies.

She wasn’t looking at him like he was just him.

Her eyes flicked from the blood to the gun in his hand, then back to his face.

Zedd wet his lips. Swallowed. His fingers tensed around the grip, then loosened. He flicked the safety back on, slow. Deliberate.

“Neen, babydoll…” he said, voice even. “It’s me.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Zedd exhaled. Shifted his stance.

His boot dragged through the blood. Zedd put his gun back in his jacket.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The low murmur of voices, the uneven shuffle of boots across pavement, the familiar crackle of a patrol’s comms lighting up as they assess the scene.

None of it registers.

Zedd’s eyes are on the bodies.

It’s a long time before anyone speaks to him directly.

And when they do, it’s the patrol lead—a tall woman with a clipped voice and a tired face. Her uniform is standard issue, practical and clean, but there’s an understated confidence in the way she stands, the way her eyes track over the bodies, over him, calculating.

She’s seen worse. She’s seen plenty.

But Zedd can tell she’s piecing this one together in real time.

"You killed all four?"

Zedd exhales through his nose. Slow. Steady.

"Would’ve let them live if they didn’t try to bag me first," he mutters.

The woman hums. Her eyes flick to Nina, wrapped up in the oversized blanket someone had draped over both of them. She’s pressed in close against Zedd’s side, gripping onto him with a tension that hasn’t eased since the moment the fight ended.

She’s not shaking. Not crying.

But she hasn’t let go.

The lead shifts her weight, glancing at the nearest patrol officer. "Omnitool footage?"

A nod. "Already reviewing it."

Zedd watches them work—low voices, gloved hands flipping bodies over, eyes narrowed at wounds, calculating angles, impact points. They aren’t looking at the mess with horror. Just efficiency.

His footage will check out.

He knows that. They know that.

But the patrol lead still waits until the officer beside her nods, confirms it.

"All four engaged first. Stun guns, knife, close-quarters takedown attempt."

Another voice, dry. "Kidnapping attempt?"“Has to be. They didn’t go chemical, though.”“Obviously, it’s him. How would you even measure a dose?”

That earned a snort from someone in the back. Zedd doesn’t bother reacting.

The lead studies him a moment longer, eyes sharp, tracking details. The cuts on his ribs, the blood (none of it his) splattered across his collar, the way he hasn’t loosened his grip around Nina.

Then, finally—a sigh.

She lifts a hand, signaling the rest of the patrol. "Wrap it up. Clean this mess."

Zedd raises a brow. "That it?" He knew they weren’t going to arrest him. Shen-Abraham would have him out before an hour was up but still…

"That’s it," she confirms, tone flat. "Self-defense, caught on footage. No loose ends. No paperwork for me." She eyes the nearest body. "Unless you want me to charge you for excessive force."

Zedd almost laughs. Almost.

Instead, he just shook his head slowly, tilting his face toward the night sky, watching as another colony ship makes its way to the landing port of the transit hub of New Abraham miles from this part of the city. The neon glow warps across the planes of his face, casting sharp, unnatural shadows.

"Appreciate it," he says.

The woman shrugs. "Take care of your girl."

Then she walks off.

And just like that—the patrol is gone.

Zedd finally exhales, slow, steady, controlled. He did his best to ignore the vial that had appeared in his grasp minutes ago in favor of the weight of Nina burrowing into his side, grounding, real.

He glances down at her.

She’s still holding on.

Fingers curled tight into the fabric of his jacket, knuckles white.

She’s not shaking. Not cold.

Neither is he.

But neither of them let go.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The docking ramp screamed as it extended, metal groaning under its own weight, hydraulics hissing as the atmospheric seal disengaged. The vibrations thrummed up through the ship’s hull, through the grated flooring, through the soles of his boots.

He took his first step onto New Abraham.

The air was too clean. That was his first impression.

Not actually clean—no planet outside the Core ever was—but scrubbed. Processed through layers of filters, recycled until the metallic bite of ozone sat faintly on his tongue. The transport hub was a maze of reinforced walkways, steel platforms stretching outward in stacked tiers, bulkheads rising like walls between docking lanes.

The colony was growing.

A little too fast, if the amount of construction scaffolding was anything to go by. Cargo haulers trundled across the open bays, loading and unloading shipments under the flickering neon of landing beacons. A handful of security personnel moved through the crowd, not hurried, not tense—just present.

His boots hit the platform with a dull, deliberate thud.

He moved forward, fluid and unhurried, posture relaxed in a way that made people instinctively step aside.

He didn’t loom. Didn’t push. Didn’t need to.

His presence carried its own weight.

Tall. Lean muscle—not bulk, not showy strength, but compact efficiency. His stride was effortless, carrying him through the flow of foot traffic without ever actually touching anyone.

His dark jacket moved with him, edges swaying slightly, open just enough to flash the combat rig underneath. Not openly armed—not yet—but everything about him screamed capable.

The line at the customs desk was short.

The clerk barely glanced up when he approached. A tired man, middle-aged, uniform crisp but posture slouched, the kind of person who had seen enough faces to stop remembering any of them. He tapped at his console, hand out for the ident-chip before the traveler even reached for it.

He obliged, sliding it across the counter with a practiced flick of his fingers.

A moment passed.

The terminal beeped.

The clerk scanned through the data on his screen, reading the name aloud without even looking up.

"Leng, Kai… Welcome to New Abraham."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Basics of CQC (100 FP)Killer Instinct (100 FP)

Legacy of a Mispent Youth (100 FP)Deadeye (100 FP)ROLL: Ceph Technology (Free) [Crysis] {Database - Mundane}: “Within this small vial is a delicate sample of a Ceph commander unit, once active but now 'dead.' The nanomachinery is still functioning at some level, but it acts without intelligence nor connection to the Ceph hivemind, making it relatively safe to handle. It's not exactly a gold mine of every possible Ceph technology, but studying it can yield tremendous advances.”FAIL: Mega Attributes: Intelligence (500 FP) [Trinity: Aberration] {Knowledge - Intelligence}: "Outperform even the most advanced supercomputer clusters. You receive one of the following Enhancements for free:

Taint Resistance: Your grey matter is extremely durable. Any form of insanity you had before eruption is healed, and neural dysfunction as a result of Node growth will be greatly reduced. Your brain will also be far better at self-repair and working around injuries or drugs that impair mental functions.

Analyze Weakness: Nothing is perfect, and you can easily identify flaws in what you can observe. This requires at least a basic understanding of the mechanics behind something, but you are otherwise not limited in what this Enhancement can apply to. Anything from structures to complex systems to bureaucratic procedures.

Mental Prodigy: You naturally grok a particular field of study. Learning new skills, making advancements, and intuitive leaps within this area comes easily to you. Your chosen field might be anything from a specific scientific field like engineering or medicine, finance, forensic science, or military tactics."

FAIL: Garage Spaceship (600 CP) [Ben 10 0.1] {Knowledge - Reverse Engineering}: "When you spend a lot of time taking cars apart to sell for scrap and parts, you eventually start getting a pretty good idea of how they work and which parts are more important than others. So spaceships work the same way, right? Whether from a hobby or a lifetime of scrapping alien weaponry to sell for some big bucks, you're good at figuring out advanced tech just by taking it apart and getting a good look at its insides.

You can even maintain, repair, and eventually build things years ahead of the curve using nothing but common materials you find in 21st Century Earth. When you think about it, a spaceship is just a really big car, right? You can also hack into things with wires or machinery… though it might take a little trial and error to get it right, depending on how advanced it is and how smart you are. Sometimes engineering smarts don't hold up to understanding the super science stuff behind it."

FAIL: Sacrificial Smith (600 FP) [Overlord - Games] {Crafting - Artisan}: "If there is a tradition between all those Overlords and what they did, then that is using minions to empower whatever they forge—usually by having those that just spawned jump in the smelter in order to empower what is gonna be crafted. And you can not only do the same thing, so long as you sacrifice minions in some way that involves the crafting process of what you are making."

Forge Points: 500