Massive Disaster 3-Interlude I (Patreon)

MARCH 2180


Pedro hit the edge of the plaza doing just under “public menace” velocity, wheels thudding over uneven pathway seams the city still hadn’t fixed. Not that he expected them to—Las Coronas was all gleam up top, rust underneath. Rich kid condos sat on top of flickering LED crosswalks like it was aesthetic. He dipped low, swerved hard left around a couple mid-convo, earbuds in and eyes everywhere but where they needed to be.

“¡Oye! Coming through, gente, eyes up—!”

They didn’t even flinch. Typical.

His board thrummed beneath him, the thing feeling like it wanted to break apart but was too stubborn to quit. Just like him. Truth be told, he was pretty sure he was a good bit tougher though because his board felt like it was a couple dozen grinds away from splitting in half.

Being real, as much as he loved it, the deck was older than his jacket, and the grip tape was held on by hope and half a strip of polymer sealant he jacked from a maintenance bin. Left bearing still caught weird at the forty-degree tilt, which he kept forgetting until it almost faceplanted him into a food cart. Again.

Smelled like fried dumplings and desperation. His stomach did a little backflip.

Focus, dumbass.

Crowds thickened as he sped down the greenways of Corona Prime, the central neigborhood of the largest borough-state in Nueva York, the heart of Los Coronas. Nueva York was a large colony on its own, nothing like the massive sprawls of the major races but decently-sized for humanity, honestly. And the culture… all the best parts of Earth’s New York but bigger and better. Pedro honestly couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, especially someplace as crowded as Earth.

One hundred million people already felt crowded enough. Twelve billion sounds like blood-soaked Batarian hell. The colony was big and sprawling now after about thirty years of buildup and settling, Pedro not even wanting to imagine what it was like in its first years. Back when people still called it by its official name, YNII. His face contorted just thinking that ugly-ass name. Yuck.

The artificial sun panels above were hitting peak glare as he sped down the streets, cooking down heat like someone forgot to tweak the weather cap. Brown eyes widened and Pedro O’Hara ducked hard, head barely avoiding a low-hanging ad banner buzzing with some sanitized jingle in six languages that would have cut it clean off. Most of them said “Buy local, buy Victory,” which, yeah, hilarious considering none of Victory’s shit was priced like anything local.

He zipped past a turian in a matte-black vest with those York Authority-issued shoulder plates, only realizing how close he’d come when the guy hissed and jerked to the side.

“Ey, ey, I’m skatin’ here!” Pedro threw over his shoulder, not even slowing down. Accent full tilt Nueva York, just like Papi used to say it, quoting some antique vid he swore was a classic. Nobody ever got the reference. 

Least of all turians.

He glanced back as the guy’s mandibles flared his way. Pedro flipped a lazy salute and turned forward again—

“Jesus!”

—just in time to dodge an elcor toddler-sized delivery drone wobbling down the path like it had balance issues and beef with gravity.

“—where’s the protocol patch for that one? Janky-ass beta flight path…”

His board dipped again. Sharp left into a hard rebound and right into the storefront stretch, where neon glowed like every sign was shouting for attention and none of them meant it. Hot pink, cyan, fake gold overlays pulsing in sync to whatever corporate DJ thought was peak ambient.

Pedro’s eyes caught on a window to a tech shop, the clean display forcing his attention right onto it. Victory Innovations electric blue logo hovered just above the glass like it had a personal ego.

His reflection hit him mid-glance. Faded band shirt clinging weird from sweat and wind, jacket sleeves still too long, cargo shorts a mess of half-zipped pockets. Hair looked like it’d been styled by atmospheric turbulence.

Right next to him in the glass: a V-Glide. Sleek. Carbon-weave frame. Proprietary knowledge so slick and unknown that the markup on them outside of the Terminus was downright highway robbery from what he saw online. All of it just hype enought to shout cool and just subtle enough to scream wealth. A rich kid’s dream rig.

Pedro came to a stop and stared, open desire clear in his reflection.

He had barely been staring for half a minute but it was long enough for some kid—clean hair, shiny shoes, probably smelled like filtered air and quarterly bonuses—to walk out of the store with a new board under one arm and zero awareness that the universe had just stabbed someone dead center in the ego.

Pedro’s eyes tracked the kid for a second too long. Then longer.

Maybe that thing ain’t even all that for real, he thought, jaw clenched as the V-Glide gleamed in the sun like it knew it was special. Bet it can’t even manual without shitting itself, he groused, well-aware he was just being sour.

Without another look back, he took off down the street again, board back underfoot as he kicked hard.

“Give it a couple months,” he muttered to himself, voice low but almost bouncing in his own head. “You’ll get yours.”

He rolled slow now, half-glide, half-vibe as his board grumbled beneath him, the thing acting like it needed a nap more than he did. Come on, buddy, he thought to himself. I’ll oil you up good and slap some omni-gel on you if you’re a good boy. His delivery bag was slung across his back, the thing empty and weightless like a physical reminder—zero payload, zero pay, zero fucks left to give. (Okay that last one was a lie.)

His last job today had him on the run all the way to Forest Heights and back on a cross-district haul for a worthless client who paid in attitude and a two-star rating. A delivery that was shit from a butt. Transit fees ate half his whole payout, already, and “Processing” clearance meant almost fifteen minutes of sweet-talking some bored security lady into letting him in without arresting him for being too poor to exist in that area.

And the tip? Now, that was a joke he couldn’t even laugh at. What tip?

Mental math had him with no more than 750 credits in the account, 450 of which already belonged to Aunt Maya for the week. 150 still technically tagged for the V-Glide fund but… yeah right. The lottery fee for admission into Nueva York U? Also a square 750. Which might as well be seven million unless Benji’s scholarship fairy came back with twins.

In no time at all, Pedro found himself spinning in a lazy turn past the corner shop as he tried to catch the eye of the shopkeep. It didn’t take long but Pedro wasn’t surprised as Mr. Alvarez nodded at him from the doorway, not when the man was wearing that slightly sad smile. “No jobs today, mijo. Maybe tomorrow.”

Pedro shrugged like it was whatever. Like it didn’t mean he wasn’t shit out of luck for the rest of the week. “All good, jefe.”

(Wasn’t all good. Hadn’t been for a minute.)

He was pretty sure this was already a common fact of the galaxy but it was insane how much being poor sucked. No ifs, ands, or buts about it, it seemed like unless someone gave you a hand up or noticed you existed, you’d always just be stuck in the dirt. Pedro sighed, only to regret it a half-second later as the breeze kicked up, blasting his face with hot wind off a heat exchanger. Pedro took in a sharp breath, eyes narrowed as he pushed past the wave of warm, dry air. Hate that shit. Always feels like the whole block is breathing food air right in my face.

The drone zipped by above him—sleek, stable, optimized to cut him out of the workforce one non-human delivery at a time. Pedro glared. Bet you don’t know how to sweet-talk a stuck bulkhead open with a spoon and a threat, pendejo.

Only thing he had on ’em now. Flesh and stubborn.

The campus glinted as he passed by the Nueva York University satellite branch, way too clean for the neighborhood. Pedro’s eyes snagged on a big-ass holo-banner floating over the glass: “Celebrating Our Future Leaders.” Benji’s face beamed out from the ad-frame in that crisp-ass business school NYU blazer. White teeth. Smug smile. Auntie Maya had cried when they sent the picture and she always made sure to drive by the school just to see him on the holo-banner.

Pedro smiled too. Kinda. Pride didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

His smile faded slightly at the sight of the poster hanging lopsided on the next block over for YNIIPD. “See the stars, defend the dream,” he groused, “Yeah, right.” He didn’t have to squint to remember Kane’s last holo-message, his older brother in dusty armor as he sent 3,000 credits a month sent back like usual.

Aunt Maya always said she worried. Pedro nodded and didn’t mouth off, just said the right things. Nothing like: if Kane doesn’t make it back, we’re screwed.

He hit a crack in the pavement and jumped with his board, the thing spinning beneath it before he landed back hard with a grunt. A grunt from the board, not him.

“I’m just taking time to figure it out,” he muttered, like saying it out loud made it real. “College isn’t for everyone. Someone’s gotta be here to help.”

He’d said that so many times it didn’t even echo anymore. He kinda wished it didn’t feel like a lie every single time.

But he could fix shit. That wasn’t up for debate. Omni in his bag was jury-rigged to a custom config with half-burned firmware and it still outperformed the stock crap. His room? Graveyard of broken tech that still ran. Somehow. Because he made it.

School never kept up and the start of bridge core was the last time he could ignore it, something about puberty making it harder for him to sit still. “Too slow,” he’d said once to his Uncle Benji, when he was home on leave. “Too structured.”

“Kill me,” he’d muttered after. And meant it.

Pedro clocked the building from a block away—the usual patchwork of colony-core retrofit and decades-long wear, same flickering panel three floors up still busted from that one electrical fire that was only ever fixed,not replaced. The placed looked like it had character. Shame it lived like it had plumbing problems.

He didn’t bother checking the elevator. Thing worked about as often as payday did. So, board under one arm, he started the climb—five flights, same as ever. Same dusty stairwell. Same scuffed wall with the peeling sticker that used to say UNITY but now just said NIT. He scoffed to himself. Yeah, that tracked.

The door lock buzzed when he tapped it with his omni. After a few seconds of fiddling with the door, it finally opened and Pedro stepped in like he was trying not to disturb the quiet, but it was already there, the only sound a low familiar hum as he stepped into the small apartment, one of the earliest buildings in the colony. He didn’t have to spend a moment to think about it, the filtration system. He had patched it up last month and as usual it gave off its usual soft whirring hum, more alive than he felt after his shit day. 

The smell hit next. Sofrito.

And there was Tía Maya in the kitchen, half in her med-center scrubs still, hair pulled back, that practical no-nonsense tie she always used. The gray streaks in it were more visible now. Or maybe the lighting just sucked. Probably both. 

Her eyes looked tired in that way that meant they’d been tired for a few years, especially the last four. But her smile still hit like a real thing.

“¿Cómo te fue, mijo?”

He dropped the bag on the couch with a puff. “Eh. Was fine.”

She didn’t buy it for a second. Her eyes flicked to the bag. 

But the rhythm kicked in, easy now. Spanish to English to half-and-half. The kind of conversation you could have with your eyes closed.

“Before I forget…” she said, reaching into her pocket.

Pedro blinked. “What?”

She pressed a small credit chit into his palm. He stared at it in confusion. The number blinked up at him with four zeros behind it. His heart did something weird. “Wait, wait, Tía, no—no, I can’t—”

His voice broke as he looked back up at her. He tried to give it back, fingers twitching like maybe if he reversed time by five seconds he could un-exist the moment. “You work too much already, and I—this isn’t—”

She just looked at him, a soft smile on her face. That kind of look that didn’t leave room for arguments but still felt like a hug.

“I’ve seen how you look at that V-Glide for a year now, cariño.”

Her fingers folded his hand closed around it.

“Consider it an early birthday present. It’s not too expensive.”

She let the silence land before adding the final blow, somehow managing to sound proud of him for being a jobless failure. “Besides, you fixed Mrs. Gonzalez’s entire apartment system last week for free. You deserve something nice for once.”

It was strange, you know.

How your body could just betray you sometimes.

Hell, the way his mouth refused to move and the way his fingers stayed still, it was never more obvious than right now. His fingers stayed curled around the chit like it would slip out of his hand, just vanish if he looked at it again for too long. Which—honestly? Wouldn’t be that surprising. Money didn’t usually stick to him this long. His wallet wasn’t a safe place, just one where money fell out of and hope went to die.

His eyes stayed down, locked on to the corner tile near the sink, the one with the hairline fracture he kept forgetting to seal. Because Maya’s smile was still there—worn, quiet, proud—and he could feel it anyway, even with his back mostly turned. He couldn’t move his mouth to say Thank You or anything else like that because it didn’t feel enough. His throat felt hot and thick, like he’d swallowed something hot and dumb.

She had definitely been saving that. No way she just pulled that kind of credit out of nowhere without sacrificing something else—groceries, maybe. Maybe even that one pill she took but wouldn’t talk about.

The budget just wasn’t set for this, he knew that much, knew it as well as anything. Hell, he helped make the spreadsheet, color-coded and everything, because numbers made more sense than feelings.

Feelings? Those didn’t pay bills. They didn’t fix stress. They didn’t keep the world running.

“Tía, I can’t—this’s… too much. Take… take it back, please.”

“Why do you think you always need to take care of me all the time? Your uncle would be proud of you but you’re eighteen, calm down and besides…” Tía Maya cocked her hand on her waist, giving him a tired look. She didn’t even flinch, her hand already waving him off like he’d said something funny. “I’ve seen how you stare at that board, cariño. I’m not blind.”

This is too much. Way too much. Pedro tried to give it back, holding his hand out slowly. Not hesitantly, he wasn’t trying to keep it, but he also knew if he wasn’t careful, his wand would snap out like a threat. “Maya…”

She just smiled and folded his fingers around it like sealing a promise.

“Just think of it like a… early birthday present,” she said, voice light, seemingly unbothered by the thousands of credits she was giving away. “Not too expensive. I asked around.”

Pedro knew the model’s price. He knew how far that chit went, and how much it didn’t. But her hand was already pulling away, and she turned toward the stove like the matter was closed.

“I got another shift tomorrow,” she tossed over her shoulder, too casual.

“Cool,” he said. “That’s… yeah. Cool.” Which was stupid, because it really really wasn’t. Because she shouldn’t have to. Because he should be pulling that kind of weight by now.

But he just stood there for a second. Then a few more. Then too many.

“Go on, you look tired,” she said, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

He honestly couldn’t say if he walked or floated or short-circuited, but somehow he ended up in his room. The door shut behind him, bag dropping to the floor with a light whump at his feet.

His desk was a minefield of half-finished tech, an old solid-state terminal sitting there behidn all the junk. Omni parts, cracked casings, a disassembled gyro that might’ve worked last week and definitely didn’t now. Posters still peeling at the edges—Earth legends, first-gen colony teams, all stuck in their glory while he treaded water.

He dropped onto his bed, body fully crashing as everything seemed to hit him at once.The chit was still in his hand, clenched tight in his fist as if scared it would vanish if he would let go. Money had the habit of doing that around him, lime some reverse gravity shit, or as if his account had a hole in it where creds fell through and hope went to die.

Excitement tried to sneak in, whisper something like you can finally get it. But guilt was louder. Always louder. Because he hadn’t earned it. Not really. Not like Benji. Not like Kane. Hell, even Mrs. González was doing more than him right now and she had four broken joints and a cat that hated electricity.

He set the chit down. Right beside the tin of hard-earned, half-spent savings. Visual confirmation of how close he wasn’t. A V-Glide fund, technically. But also rent backup. And medkits. And maybe someday school. Maybe.

The thought bit down hard. College. Still a maybe. Still a maybe on the same street as never gonna happen unless a miracle lands in your inbox.

And right on cue, his omni pinged.

Custom tone. The one he set for job boards and long-shot freelance listings. The one that usually meant barely-worth-it gig incoming, get your hopes down.

Pedro hesitated. Hand half-raised. Thought about just letting it wait. Then checked anyway.

The light off the omni glinted sharp against the clutter. Interface pulsing blue-white. His config was still running—outdated firmware, modded shells, overclocked just enough to void any warranty if he ever had one.

And there it was.

From: adamvictors@victoryinnovations.extra

Pedro blinked.

The logo popped up a beat later. An electric blue VI, big and professional in that we’re a real corp kind of way.

He stared and swallowed. Then the message started to scroll.

“Greetings to Mr. O’Hara…”