Massive Disaster III-19 (Patreon)

Still blue.

Same fucking tone, just different enough to make his eyes narrow and his skin itch in all the wrong ways. Five days of refinement, tweaking variables, recalibrating enzyme compatibility across four separate tissue synth profiles, and it still didn’t shift. 

Should’ve hit orange. And the thing was it always did hit orange in the ADVENT labs. Bright, pulsing, near blood-warm.

This one was closer to a darker version of that blue tint he remembered some rubbing alcohol coming in—clean but sterile. He set the vial back in the rack with a soft, deliberate click, jaw tight, fingers twitching against the chilled metal lip like the wrong color was somehow personal.

The sub-lab was quiet, which he appreciated. 

Not silent, just right-quiet.

AY-E wasn't hovering over his shoulder for once, the cute little angel she was, and AY-U was still upstairs sulking over a jammed tread. Zedd had locked them both out on purpose. Really can’t afford distractions right now. This wasn’t just precision work. This was a line—one he didn’t wanna cross on a fucking hunch.

"ADAM, final sim check. Ocular reintegration protocol sequence, MV-7 alpha."

"Running now, boss. Integration with optic nerve architecture: 98.6% effective. Pathway latency: negligible."

Holo-display bloomed above the table in clean arcs of white and ghostlight blue, retinal overlays spiraling across a rotating wireframe head. Nerve lines. Synapse trees. Fractal-coded meltweb threading into cerebral matter like a vascular infection—MELD threads. They were perfect. Still blue.

Footsteps. Controlled ones. Zedd didn’t bother looking up.

"You can come in, Winters," he muttered, tone flat as he adjusted the lens focus. "Door’s not a puzzle."

A pause, then soft tread-on-metal as Scot stepped through, posture straight like he was bracing for something. Still moved like he had to ask permission with his whole body. Loose Alliance-issue track pants, gray tee two sizes too big, bandages tight around his eyes like the world had tried to unmake his face and only half-finished. The kid looked like a stat line waiting to be filled out. Still tall, still all wiry tension. Still didn’t make noise unless he meant to.

"The door was open," Scot said, voice calm, with that weirdly measured cadence of his. "I counted sixty-eight ceiling tiles from the medbay to this room."

Zedd’s mouth twitched as he nearly broke out into a smile. Course he did.

"Pain?"

"Manageable. Three and a half out of 10."

Monotone. Not downplaying, not dramatic. Just data. Zedd slid the vial rack into the fridge without looking away from the screen. Cold needed to be dead-center on 4.2, not 4.1 or 4.3. Any higher and the cell chains started to drift; any lower and the protein binders froze too slow to catch.

"Burns?"

"Healing ahead of projected curve, honestly. My torso range-of-motion is a great deal better and so are my limbs. I hadn’t realized how use I’d been to feeling generally… sore."

Zedd’s brow lifted. The MELD priming dose was already outperforming spec. That was a good sign. Made the rest of this less of a gamble. Not that he was gambling. Just… applying risk strategically.

"Chair’s three steps ahead, turn right, then sit."

Scot didn’t hesitate. Moved straight there, one hand brushing the chair’s edge to confirm it before settling down like he’d memorized the lab’s layout in braille. Didn’t fumble. Didn’t ask. Still too damn composed.

"You’re doing it today," Scot said more than asked. Not cold. Not curious. Just checking.

"Now, actually." Zedd flexed his fingers, slipped the micromanipulator gloves on. Motors buzzed damn-near silently as the software synced to his nerves and calmed them, haptic feedback pulsing up his wrists. "You nervous?"

Scot held his breath for half a second. "No."

Liar. If the silence didn’t tell Zedd that, the elevation in his pulse did the job just fine—steady, but just barely. ADAM’s overlay fed the vitals straight to Zedd’s HUD, trailing numbers he didn’t need but checked anyway.

"Cool. ‘Cause I’m about to jab a bunch of long-ass needles into your muscles, then your eyes, then your brain. Nothing personal."

No flinch. No twitch. Not even a blink—obviously—but still. Zedd watched the jaw tighten and the pulse spiked again.

"I assume you'll apply localized anesthetics during the ocular segment."

Zedd made a vague flick of his fingers. "Yeah, you’ll be out. When you wake up, you’ll see again."

He didn’t say better. Scot would find out soon enough.

The medcart rolled up like it had been summoned by sarcasm, and considering ADAM was controlling the thing, it might as well have been. Eight syringes clicked into place in the holding tray. Each labeled. Each coded for intramuscular precision much lighter than the full rewrite that was Caleb’s mods. No Rebirth serum here, nothing like that.

Just… adjustments.

"Starting with the muscle shots," Zedd said, already reaching for the first syringe as he decided to do this by hand rather than with ADAM’s help. "They’re gonna suck. A lot."

Scot’s nod was automatic. "I understand."

Doubt it. Zedd really doubted anyone could understand what it was like to go under the knife and wake up an entirely different person with little to no adjustment time. Zedd didn’t say any of that. Instead, he just kept his grip steady as the first needle sank in—deltoid, to the left side, sharp entry with zero fanfare. The muscle spasmed under the hit as Scot flinched—barely, just a breath hitch—but the tension crawled through his whole body like his bones were bracing for something worse.

One down.

MELD rushed the site instantly, microstructures unfolding in a ripple beneath the skin, too small to track visually but already pinging across Zedd’s HUD like a dozen new processes lighting up at once. Adaptive muscle fiber reconfiguration, mitochondrial load calibration, blah blah whatever—he tuned it out after the fifth line.

All he cared about was three simple words. It. Was. Working.

Second syringe. To the right deltoid. Then one to the hamstrings, another to the left quad, then right. 

The pattern mattered, the spread of concentration zones mattered, and Scot didn’t make a sound for any of it, just kept squeezing the chair’s armrests as his jaw clenched every third second. Zedd could see the sweat now. Not fear. Focus. Teeth tight. Body language screaming that he’d done the math and accepted the cost, but hadn’t quite figured out how to process the receipt.

“Skeletal enhancement protocol initiating,” ADAM chimed in, voice smooth like it hadn’t just dropped the word ‘skeletal’ like a casual Tuesday. “Estimated completion time: twelve-point-four hours.”

Zedd dropped the last syringe back into the disposal tray and sat back, fingers flexing in his micromanipulator gloves. The overlay on his HUD lit up with internal cross-sections: dense tissue matrices threading deeper, ligament reinforcement, calcium lattice already starting to layer under the bone like the guy was being rebuilt from the ground up, all the way from each individual cell.

“How’s it feel?” Zedd asked, watching for microtwitches around the jawline, elbow angle, anything that’d say too much.

Scot inhaled—slow, like checking for leaks—and tilted his head, not toward Zedd, just toward the middle of the room like he was trying to calibrate against silence. “Warm,” he said finally. “There’s pressure. Mild. No acute pain. It feels… different.”

Zedd huffed under his breath. “Yeah. Different. That’s what it is.” His HUD flicked up another set of realtime values. Metabolic rate up, cardiac load manageable. Better numbers than Caleb, actually, at least regarding potential risk. 

Cleaner. 

Smoother, a lot less drastic changes. Something about this baseline was working better, probably due to how much less was being altered. Or maybe Zedd was just better now. “Your system’s basically running a teensy little update. Optimizing layout. You’ll stabilize fast.”

“How much of an update?” Scot asked, like he was already budgeting for the consequences.

Zedd shrugged reflexively, then snorted because—right, blind, forgot. “The highest potential package I have is… finicky. At best, it might work perfectly. At worse, you might become an egotistical monster drunk on power and ego. I’m just giving you a standard tuneup, no genetic detours. Just precision stuff. Best guess? Two, maybe two-and-a-half times your normal strength. Maybe three on endurance. Enough to matter, not enough to raise flags.”

Scot was silent for a good five seconds. Then, very quietly, almost like he was testing how it’d sound, Scot said, “I’ll pass biometric scans.”

Zedd glanced over, one brow lifting. Sharp little bastard. “Exactly. You’ll show up as peak human on anything short of a full invasive. That’s on purpose.”

“For what purpose? Field infiltration?”

“For being able to go around in the Alliance and on the Citadel if you want a vacation, genius,” Zedd muttered back. “Let’s keep the war games on pause for now, yeah?”

The table shifted as the next rig extended—the ocular assembly. The surgical arch unfolded like a scorpion stretching, all segmented arms and sterilized metal. Looked medieval. Wasn't. Zedd stripped off one set of gloves, pulled on the microsurgery pair, thinner and loaded with haptic feedback channels that made every movement feel like it mattered.

Scot shifted slightly. “So this is the vision restoration.”

“This is where I knock you unconscious and jam things into your optic nerves,” Zedd said dryly. “And if you’re lucky, you don’t remember the part where I burn a hole in your retina and fill it with goo.”

Scot didn’t react. “Anesthetic?”

Zedd was already prepping that, the sedative in hand as he tapped a finger against the injection module. “You’ll be out cold. And when you wake up, you’ll be seeing again. Better, technically. Might take up to a half hour to sync right, though.”

Scot didn’t nod. He just repeated that same, “Understood,” leaving Zedd feeling like he was talking to ADAM as he was when Zedd first got him. Then, softer, “I trust your judgment.”

Zedd paused. That wasn’t the part he expected to land. He looked at him—really looked—and for half a second the words stuck in his throat. Not because he doubted himself. 

Just... because.

“Good,” he muttered, flicking the sedative into the port.

The tension bled out of Scot’s posture like someone pulled the strings from behind. His shoulders dropped. Fingers unclenched. The readout on Zedd’s HUD went flat-line smooth, brainwaves shifting to deep REM inside fifteen seconds.

Then it was just Zedd. Him, the work, and ADAM’s running diagnostics feeding constant updates into the side of his vision like a meditation track only he could hear.

“ADAM, prep suite MV-7 alpha.”

The arms began to move. Bandages peeled back with a mechanical whir and clean snaps of adhesive separation. The damage underneath was worse than he expected. The burns had carved ridges into the skin, pulling it taut in the wrong directions. The left eye had collapsed in on itself like a kicked-in balloon. Corneal tissue warped and shredded. Everything raw. Fucked.

Zedd exhaled once, sharp through his teeth, and started calibrating the MELD delivery system.

Don’t react. Just work.

He picked up the first needle—thin enough to pass through a cell wall without rupturing it, programmed for subretinal implantation and microglial repair. The level of precision was insane. Stupid, even. No one sane tried this outside of cleanroom surgical theaters with six hours of prep. But Zedd wasn’t sane. He was prepared.

“Beginning subretinal injection sequence,” he said, voice lower now, anchoring himself.

The needle moved. His hands followed. The MELD flowed.

He lost track of time, just watched the systems stabilize in real-time as damaged nerves reconstructed themselves layer by nerve-layer. New retinal cells bloomed out like wildfire under pressure, woven by code and chemical into something that was half-organic and half-machine.

And it was working. He could see it. Literally.

The feedback loops were clean, the spread was balanced, even the absorption rates were above baseline.

Next came the optic nerve. He switched rigs. Slower work now. Blood vessels, myelination, reestablishing conductivity across damaged lines without overclocking the system and frying it in the process.

“Optic nerve restoration at forty-two percent,” ADAM reported. “Exceeding expected projections.”

Zedd didn’t smile. Hell, he didn’t even breathe as he just guided the system in deeper, felt the hum of precision run all the way through his wrists like he was playing a goddamn violin.

Maybe the color didn’t matter. Maybe orange had just been superstition, or bad memory. 

Whatever it was, the blue was holding.

“Initiating Hyper-Reactive Pupil Module integration.”

Zedd tracked the ongoing process across the feed. Each filament anchored and aligned, individual strands dissolving into the mucous membrane and along the irises like a zipper being pulled shut one slow slow millimeter at a time.

No tremor.

No bleed.

No drift.

Good.

“ADAM, I’m going to need you to prep the psionic interface protocols,” Zedd said, voice lower than before. Not really fatigue, more just... sitting in it too long. Breathing recycled air and micro-adjusting surgical microtools with the kind of focus that should’ve felt impressive but just made his eyes burn.

Minimal psionic resonance. That’s what Scot had flagged on the scan. A strong flicker, just enough to trigger a reading. No variety, no real potential for standard growth, no channeling instinct. But that didn’t matter. 

Scot didn’t need capacity. No, with MELD, he was almost guaranteed some sort of improvement on that level. No, he just needed a conduit.

The needles were thinner than hair. One micron above the atomic edge where matter still behaved like matter instead of turning quantum. If Zedd’d moved too fast, they'd snap. If he moved too slow, they'd misfire. Either one meant cooked nerves and cognitive regression.

So, y’know. No pressure.

“Beginning psionic tap insertion,” he muttered, guiding the first probe in just above the orbital ridge, letting the system trace the prefrontal paths. There. Anchor point. Neural bridge laid in shallow, not deep—he didn’t need depth. He needed throughput. A one-way street. Visual cortex pinged green a second later. Sync held. No latency spike. No seizure onset. Still good.

“Microdose MELD initiating,” ADAM confirmed, and Zedd watched the new sequence bloom across the live model like ink dropped into water. It didn’t spread—it curved, routed, pulling toward pre-programmed highways in the neurostructure like it knew where it belonged.

Not Rebirth. Not even close. But close enough to cheat a few rules.

“Pathway reroute at eighty-nine percent,” ADAM said, static crackling faint behind the voice, some sublayer comms thing spiking from the feedback. “Optic chiasm stable.”

Zedd didn't answer. Too busy watching it take.

Not seeing like normal, but watching—the way the integration lit up the interior scaffolding. The way the MELD froze just long enough at the optic junction to make him think it’d failed. Then slipped through. Like it was waiting for permission it didn’t need.

There. Right there.

Final hardening sequence locked into place, neural glue turning soft pathway into permanent architecture. Self-healing. Self-learning. It’d grow with him now. Get stronger with use. Every psionic impulse would refine it, amplify it. Not a gift. A lens. A filter.

A weapon.

“Procedure complete,” ADAM said, the AI calm as ever. “Neural integration holding. Subject stable.”

Zedd exhaled. Not a breath, really. More like pressure loss. His shoulders finally dropped, spine cracking down the middle as he pulled the gloves off one finger at a time. Palms buzzing like he’d been holding a live wire too long.

“Keep him under,” he said, already shoving the gloves into their charger cradle. “Flag any irregularities. I’m done.”

“Estimated time to full stabilization: four-point-three hours.”

Cool. Plenty of time to breathe.

The corridor air felt less clean, which made no sense. Cooler maybe. Still filtered. But not lab air. Just hallway. He stretched his arms over his head until the joints popped, took the stairs like he didn’t care if his legs locked halfway up, and almost walked straight into a six-foot block of silently judgmental ninja.

“Jesus,” Zedd muttered, stopping just shy of collision. “You ever heard of footsteps?”

Kai didn’t blink. Just turned, fell into step beside him like they’d planned it. All muscle memory and silence. The guy didn’t make noise. Zedd was convinced the bastard had negative mass or something.

Normally that’d be annoying. Lately, Zedd had started finding it... helpful. Not comforting, just predictable. The one variable in his life that didn’t throw off sparks.

He was halfway down the hall before Madelyn’s name floated back up. Her chart was stuck in legal limbo because her parents didn’t trust a teenager running a science experiment with their daughter’s survival. Go figure.

She was their kid. At best, he was a stranger.

“They filed a second request,” Kai said, finally breaking the quiet like he was commenting on the weather. “They want your credentials, procedural breakdowns, long-term metrics. Documentation.”

Zedd snorted. “Tell them I stitched a blind guy’s eyes back together with my specially modified medigel. Should be real reassuring.”

Kai didn’t even blink. “They simply desire assurances.”

Zedd glanced at him, jaw working for a second like he had something to say that wasn’t a punchline. 

Yeah. He’d want assurances too.

"I know what she has," Zedd snapped, voice low but sharp enough to bite through alloy. The scans were still burned into his memory—every inch of skin listed like a fucking parts catalog, column after column of numbers that added up to a girl who shouldn’t be breathing. Burn patterns, dermal loss, nerve obliteration. The worst of it wasn’t even visible. Her lungs. Her throat. The parts that didn’t scream when touched because they couldn’t anymore.

He hit the next corner too fast, shoulders brushing the edge of the frame. Didn’t care. "I could fix it tomorrow if they’d just sign the damn forms."

Lie. Not a big one. Just the kind you tell yourself when the alternative’s worse.

Even if the parents caved, even if he had access—he didn’t have the MELD. Not enough. Not nearly. You didn’t patch a body like hers with minor edits. You rebuilt it. Brick by brick, nerve by nerve, cell by cell, and that meant volume. Scale. It meant biofoundries running hot on full spec for weeks straight.

Zedd cut down the next hall without looking back, pulse still too fast. Need a better fermenter. Strip out the side-chain inhibitors. Reroute the protein loops—

Kai didn’t follow closer. Just… kept pace. Silent. Occupying space like a loaded weapon tucked too close to your ribs. Zedd didn’t glance at him.

And what about you?

The thought came quiet. Submerged. Didn’t rise all the way to the top, just sat there under the noise. Slid past like static.

When’s it your turn, genius?

He’d been circling that question for a while. Always more data to gather. More baseline trials to run. Caleb was the test case. Scot the refinement. Wait for results, wait for anomalies. Watch, optimize, calibrate.

But that wasn’t why. Not really.

The real reason was way stupider.

He didn’t trust himself with it.

Not Rebirth, not as a full install. The serum worked. Too well. Power wasn’t the problem—it was what happened after. Zedd didn’t have the excuse Caleb did. No failing organs, no collapsing skeleton. No trauma-wrecked immune system hanging by threads. Caleb got Rebirth because he was already dying.

Scot? He got MELD. He lost something. Vision. Autonomy. He had skin in the game, literally.

Zedd had nothing but reasons not to.

He wasn’t naïve. He knew what lived in his own head. Knew the voice that didn’t flinch at collateral damage, the reflex that solved problems with escalation before it ever considered mercy. That instinct—that thing—couldn’t have muscle. Couldn’t have reach. Not until he figured out how to cage it.

And if he was honest—and he usually wasn’t—that wasn’t even the real reason either.

The real real reason was uglier than all of it.

He didn’t want to be reproducible.

As harsh as it sounded, Caleb could be cloned and his memories at ADVENT told him exactly how he could do it. MELD and Rebirth both could be mass-produced, and he doubted it’d be all that hard if you really put your mind into it. Everything he built for others could be weaponized and sold off by someone else if they had the specs and no shame. 

But him? He wanted something unique. Something no one else could possibly replicate. 

Not because it worked better. 

He just wanted to be special.

And that was exactly why he couldn’t touch Rebirth.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The observation deck was cooler than he remembered. Zedd leaned into the glass as Kai settled into that same position five steps behind, motionless like a mannequin programmed to murder. Below, Caleb was already in motion, tearing through his warmup like he’d never been broken. No limp. No stiffness. Just smooth mechanical grace, muscle rippling under skin that shouldn’t have existed six months ago. No shirt. Probably on purpose.

Zedd tapped his omni-tool. "Taking a break from surgery. Thought you could use a refresher."

Caleb paused mid-lunge, squinting up into the sun. His eyes still glowed faint violet, even through the glare. "Figured you’d be elbow-deep in implants."

"Was. Now it’s integration." Zedd was already moving, pulling up the control interface. "Suit up. Shield only."

Caleb didn’t ask what for. Just grabbed his gear—custom gauntlets, the reinforced disc—and jogged to the center pad. The shield caught light weird, bending it slightly, like it wasn’t quite comfortable being seen. Not adamantium. Not even vibranium. Titanium-V. Laced with Eezo-Ψ, bonded on a molecular level. Zedd’s baby. Lighter than it should be. Stronger than it had any right to be.

Still not good enough. Not yet.

The control panel purred to life, interface flickering through engagement options as Zedd queued the first round. Kinetic pulses, mid-velocity. Painful if ignored. Harmless if you had half a brain.

"Baseline gauntlet first," he called down. "Then we spice it up."

The floor panels slid open like an invitation, turrets rising slow, lazy. Like they were bored. Caleb rolled his shoulders once, shield locked into place, and dropped into a stance before the first warning pulse had even charged.

Zedd watched the projectile hit. Clean. Deflected. No stumble.

Learning fast.

He keyed the mic again. "ADAM, gimme metrics."

The HUD feed crawled with numbers, half of them red-lining in bursts, the rest leveling off just long enough to keep Zedd from intervening. Caleb’s vitals looked decent, stable-ish, but the psionic signature was already past what he’d clocked last week. Higher ceiling. Looser grip.

“Little left on that dodge,” Zedd muttered, almost to himself, watching the playback angle track Caleb’s turn three frames behind the incoming pulse. That thing should’ve tagged his shoulder outright, but the shield caught most of it on the rebound.

"That was cheap," Caleb yelled, sliding behind a barricade like the move hadn’t just cost him half his momentum. Still grinning. Still moving like he thought the edge was a game.

Zedd didn’t look up from the console. “Bad guys don’t follow rules, remember?” His tone wasn’t biting, just flat. No real heat. “You want fair, play chess.”

The shield whipped back into frame before Caleb even finished pushing up from the crouch. One hand flick, zero hesitation. It ricocheted off three targets, snapped back on the curve like it had its own orbit. Zedd’s fingers paused. That wasn’t physics. Not all of it. The module only handled recall—clean, linear, straight-line math. This had bend.

He’s starting to push through it.

Zedd flicked a new command, spiking the difficulty across the board. Pulse fire patterns randomized. Target bots changed speed and drift axis. The AI rebalanced once, stuttered, then adapted.

Caleb adapted faster.

Shield up. Step-slide. Turn. Hit. Catch. No break in tempo. It looked good. It looked too good. Zedd watched the energy arcs skate off the shield’s rim like plasma off a mag barrier. His readings were clean, but his gut wasn’t. There was a difference between instinct and overcorrection.

Then it hit.

Too close—an emitter clipped air next to Caleb’s temple, a near miss that probably sounded louder than it hurt. Zedd caught the shift before the audio even pinged it. The way Caleb’s shoulders came up. Jaw twitched. Teeth set like the sting had made it personal.

He knew what was about to happen from the way his purple eyes flared.

Zedd’s mouth moved before his brain really lined up. “Caleb—”

Too late.

The shield was already in the air again, but this time it didn’t glide. It snapped. Violet bloom trailing from the rim like the world bent to the arc. When it hit, it didn’t bounce. The weapon emitter cracked apart in a flurry of shrapnel, steel gutting itself mid-collapse.

The range cut to black. Emergency protocols kicked in. ADAM’s override didn’t even finish the alert before Zedd killed the feed manually.

Caleb stood dead center, panting just loud enough to be picked up by two separate mics. Hands loose. Shield still humming. Whatever he felt wasn’t all adrenaline.

“That wasn’t control,” Zedd said quietly. Not angry. Not soft. Just… matter of record.

Caleb didn’t turn. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

He ran a sweep. Psionic output up thirty-two percent. Control up seventeen. “But it still happened.”

He shut the console down, leaned his weight back into his heel as he stepped out from the booth. Not dramatic. Just enough of a shift to make his point. “We’re changing focus. More suppression drills, less power amplification.”

“I can handle it.” Caleb finally looked over. Voice steady, but low.

Zedd tilted his head. “You just wrecked reinforced alloy.”

“I slipped. One time.”

“And that one time’s the difference between stopping a threat and leveling a neighborhood.” Zedd didn’t wait for the rebuttal, already moving toward the exit stairs.

His comm pinged mid-step.

“Boss,” ADAM’s voice cut in. “Integration’s accelerating. Subject Winters entering pre-conscious state. Estimated wake-up in seven minutes.”

Too early.

“On my way.”

86% was enough. Risky, but the neural bed had taken root. The remaining paths would stabilize under use. Probably.

“Problem?” Caleb called.

“Opportunity.” Zedd didn’t break pace. “Finish your cooldown. Don’t fry anything.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The lab door hissed open as he keyed his clearance, lighting shifting back to surgical white. Scot was still in the chair, restraints released, vitals steady across the board. Nothing dramatic. No twitches. No flailing. Just a subtle uptick in REMs.

Then the eyelids fluttered. Once. Twice. A third time, longer.

And opened.

No dramatic gasp. No wide-eyed cinematic moment. Just this quiet, confused stillness. Scot blinked slowly, then again. His pupils shrank, adjusted, then shrank again—overcompensating.

The MELD was still calibrating light intake.

Zedd stepped to the side. 

Scot’s hands moved up before his words did. Brushed his face like he wasn’t sure what to expect. Then froze halfway.

“I can see,” he breathed, voice thin and not quite believing. “I can see.”



– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

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