Massive Disaster 3 Interlude 5 (Patreon)

June 2181Brown eyes snapped open as the shuttle shuddered past atmo and began to slow it’s descent onto the surface proper. He could tell because… well, first of all, the pressure drop was already making his ears pop like cheap seals on a busted coolant line. Pedro O’Hara blinked, groggy, dry-mouthed, neck stiff from sleeping wrong. How did I pass out? The shuttle ride itself was barely 10 minutes, twenty if you counted safety protocol and all that. Hell, he didn’t even remember closing his eyes and definitely didn’t mean to.

Five days in a metal tube crawling across the stars with nothing but static-filled audio channels and a half-dead entertainment console that only played mid-tier dramas from like five years ago hadn’t exactly been stimulating but that wasn’t exactly the fault of anyone but him. He’d watched the same six episodes of Ironfold so many times he’d started rooting for the villain. Now? He was just glad to hear actual sound from outside metal walls rather than the emptiness of space. Hell, he could feel it all through the seat—vibrations bleeding through the floor, the kind that said you’re not in vacuum anymore, pendejo. Atmosphere drag. Real gravity again. Shit was getting real.

The shuttle jolted, the feeling something like a full-body hiccup as the landing struts punched down too fast, sending a jolt down Pedro’s spine. “Ow, dios, what the hell—”

His new omni buzzed on his wrist, the scuffed plastic vibrating a little harder than it should. Yeah, yeah, new was pushing it but he managed to get a suitable one second-hand before leaving Nueva York. 10:42 local time.

Which kinda sucked because his internal clock still swore it was somewhere around mid-afternoon. He dragged a sleeve across his mouth and blinked at the viewport.

The Virtual Intelligence sounded off with a ding-dong announcing it’s voice first. “Now arriving at Providence Spaceport, fastest-growing—”

Yeah, yeah, fastest-growing city this side of the galactic ass-end, he’d heard it on the loop four times already. Half the time it cut out anyway. Which it did. Right on cue. Pedro leaned forward, forehead pressed to the viewport.

And… okay, okay, maybe they weren’t bullshitting.

The sprawl of the New Abraham colony didn’t exactly take his breath away. He lived in Nueva York, after all. Arkadia IV – the planet – might have been the same size as his but the colony was barely 1% the size and population of the place he had grown up in. Almost nearing a population of one million, it was on the edge of being big enough for humanity to consider it a “mega-colony” and for the Citadel to actually consider it a colony, instead of an “outpost”.

Still… something about it was different. He wasn’t sure if it was the way the buildings looked or just the design of the whole place, or maybe something else entirely he didn’t have the words for — something that required a degree to describe, maybe — but it was almost like someone had dropped a 128k data model into real life and forgot to downgrade the render. Highrises knifed up through the clouds, monorails zipping between them like someone’d traced out the future in neon and white. Even the industrial sectors looked clean, organized—intentional, like somebody sat down and designed this place instead of letting it grow like a fungal sprawl around a starport.

Victory’s logo hit him like a punch—VI, bright and bold and smug, stamped across half the landing pads like a signature on every piece of skyline in Providence. Right by the ocean-lake he’d heard about in the brochure.

Zedd Victors lived here, worked here, built his empire here. The guy was the same age as him when he already started remaking the entire colony in his image and he couldn’t even get a stable job.

Pedro’s stomach did that twisty drop thing again.

What am I doing here?

He’d been asking himself that since the message showed up in his inbox with an offer; no interview, no test, not even a holo-call with a recruiter. Hell, any of that would have made more sense, but no.

He wasn’t sure why or how he was so lucky but all it came with was a job offer and a contract that came pre-signed and pre-paid on their end, the prepay too high for a trafficking situation or a trap. He’d scrolled the terms twice, saw the pre-payout and the offered salary, saw Aunt Maya’s rent covered in advance for the next two years. Hell, he signed so fast he damn near broke his old omni. Smartest and dumbest decision you ever made was taking that deal.

Landing struts compressed with a pneumatic krrch, the shuttle groaning like it resented having to stop for him.

“Welcome to Providence, second-largest city in the New Abraham Colony, second only to New Abraham Central,” the synthesized Virtual Intelligence chimed in one more time. “Victory arrivals proceed to Gate Seven for expedited processing.”

Pedro frowned. Expedited?

He slung the duffel over one shoulder—old, frayed, held together by patch jobs and spite—and followed the crowd off. Inside, the terminal gleamed like somebody polished every inch hourly. Signs floated above like helpful ghosts. One glowed soft blue: VI Corporate.

His feet carried him that way before his brain caught up. Just following instructions. That’s all. That’s what this was.

And then he saw the guy.

Well. Not guy.

Suit.

Like a VEST rig that went through puberty and came out hotter, meaner, and absolutely not standard issue. Bulky, but quiet. Sleek a little too in a way that said “prototype” without screaming “test subject.” He’d seen these on the extranet; Iron Legion VESTS. The modified suits belonging to VI’s private security squadron. No one was really sure what they could do because no one could get their hands on one outside of Victory Innovations.

The visor mirrored everything back at Pedro—himself, the terminal lights, his posture screaming what the fuck am I doing here.

“You Pedro O’Hara?”

Pedro startled like he’d been yanked out of his own head. “Uh, yeah. That’s me. I’m supposed to—”

The Legionairre nodded once, somehow making the action look natural in that suit of powered armor. Without another word, he turned around without asking another question or allowing the conversation to stretch as long as Pedro would like. “Transport’s waiting.”

Pedro took a half-step forward, hesitated.

“You coming, or what?” the voice called back, casual, no turn.

Pedro jogged to catch up, duffel bumping his back. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming—just, uh, admiring the rig. Latest model?”

No response. Perfect. Really selling the whole warm and fuzzy corporate onboarding vibe.

They stepped through some unmarked side exit—definitely not public—and the big guy in armor didn’t even break stride. Palm print, hiss of seals, door thunked shut behind them like it had something to hide. Out on the pad, a sleek black shuttle sat humming like it was bored of waiting, matte finish broken only by that blue-ass Victory logo glowing faint on the hull like it had something to prove.

“Inside.”

Pedro almost stopped, just long enough for the part of his brain still wired for Nueva York sidewalks and survival mode to yell at him: Hey, maybe don’t get in the unmarked van with the quiet dude in power armor, pendejo. But then again, he’d already crossed systems and signed a contract, pretty much sold his soul. Where were my instincts last week, honestly?

He began to climp up the steps, bag clutched tight, and froze as soon as he fully crossed the doorway.

Okay, he swallowed a mouth full of spit. Not empty at all.

Not with at least six other people already inside. All looking like they’d either seen some shit or were prepped to cause it. Pedro did a quick visual pass and instantly regretted it.

A girl with short red hair—looked his age, maybe younger, shot him a half-glance like she’d clocked him and decided he wasn’t worth the brain space at all. Next to her, a guy with the same bone structure, with bleach-blond hair that looked so asleep he might as well have been dead the way he laid on the red girl’s lap. Next to them both was a bald dude with military posture and a pair of black sunglasses that hid his eyes. Directly across from him was a beautiful dark-skinned woman with thick long braids and almost no expression on her face.

Next was a stubbled guy who looked like he’d just been dragged out of a fight after weeks of no sleep. His arms were folded, his scowl was loaded, and he looked like everything he had to say was backed by a threat.

A few seats away from him was another girl, Asian, with pink hair in a loose bun, laser-focused on her omni like it held the answer to the meaning of life. She was pretty, excessively so, and he might have spent a few good seconds looking at her if it wasn’t for the giant.

The giant.

A massive tower of muscle with an expression that looked damn near murderous. Pedro would’ve bet credits he had to duck to enter the shuttle.

Awesome. Fantastic, even. He was the runt of the litter.

Pedro sank into the closest open seat, trying not to let the duffel bag hit anyone’s foot. The armored guy let the door shut behind him, hatch sealing with a hiss that sounded way too final for comfort as he entered the cockpit.

In seconds, the shuttle lifted without another word from him or anyone else.

The silence was as dead as his career as an N7.

He cleared his throat. Tried to think of literally anything to say that wouldn’t get him murdered or ignored.

“S-so!” His voice cracked like he was still thirteen and he immediately hated himself. “Anyone else get a weird mystery job offer outta nowhere, or I’m just special?”

Every head turned his way and for the second time in as many seconds, he regretted being alive. Every single look facing him was somewhere on the spectrum from pissed-off to a level of disinterest that made him feel like a dumb kid. As expected, nobody said a damn thing.

Both of his hands went up into the air, accepting all the heat. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I figured.” He let out a low breath, almost an audible sigh leaving his mouth. “Just checking.”

The silence was back, heavy and almost suffocating as Pedro fiddled with the strap of his duffel. In his head, he found himself cycling through as many possible icebreakers as he could think of and just as quickly killing each one with prejudice.

‘Nice weather?’ Dumb. You’re inside. ‘What’s your specialization?’ Too nosy. ‘Any clue what this is actually about?’ Yeah, because you want to be the one who looks dumb already.

Instead, he stared out the window. Providence blurred beneath them—monorails, rooftop gardens, pathways that made actual spatial sense. Up high, especially from up high, Pedro could tell someone planned this city like they gave a shit.

Then the shuttle banked and the building came into view.

Victory Innovations HQ.

Pedro leaned forward instinctively. Holy—

It wasn’t just massive. It was architectural arrogance. Curved walls, glass like a statement piece, too big to be humble, too graceful to be ugly. Built to impress. Or intimidate.

The shuttle angled down toward one of the branded pads and Pedro suddenly wished he hadn’t skipped breakfast.

This is either exactly what I signed up for or absolutely not what I signed up for and I won’t know which until it’s way too late.

Landing struts kissed down with a pneumatic sigh. The armored guy stood up. Motioned to the door.

“We’re here.”

Everyone filed out of the high-class shuttle without a word, all serious and focused like they’d done this before while Pedro tried not to look like the odd one out. Cool air slapped him in the face—clean, crisp, fresh, kinda metallic, too. Not bad, just… new.

The armored figure stepped forward and turned to face them. A soft hiss and the visor slid up. Pedro blinked as he took in his face. An Indian guy was under there, early twenties maybe.

“Devraj,” the guy started, voice clean and clear, albeit less loud without the suit. “I’m Devraj Shankar. You can call me Dev, or Mr. Shankar if you’re feelin’ formal. The Iron Legion is my baby, my pet project, and Mr. Victor’s personal army. We’re the ones who keep Victory safe—staff, structures, R&D, the whole deal.”

He glanced across the group, like sizing them up wasn’t even effort. “That includes it’s grounds, staff, products, and every bit of it down to intellectual property.”

Dev shifted like the suit was muscle, not metal. Shoulders squared, voice dropped to briefing-mode—low, clipped, solid. “All of you passed the checks. Alliance redlists, Citadel archives, Terminus bounties, private corp scans—I don’t care. You cleared mine. So now we’re clear on this:”

His tone didn’t change, even as he tilted his head. “You double-cross us, sell intel, siphon code, steal shit—I’m authorized to kill you. On-site. No appeal. This is not a joke.”

He cracked a smile. “I’m not the one who’ll do the paperwork.” The joke didn’t quite land but Dev didn’t mind that nobody laughed. “We clear?”

Pedro nodded with the others, brain lagging half a beat behind. Did I just nod to my own murder clause? Cool. Real professional.

“We clear,” Dev answered himself.

The visor hissed closed, sealing with a click as the Legion leader turned and moved, smooth, like the armor wasn’t even there.

The group followed, silent shuffle past walls that looked too expensive to lean on. Security gates slid open without prompts. Retinal scans, pulse readers, even a walk-through kinesis field that felt like walking through static fuzz—every part of the building checked you, tagged you, indexed you.

His whisper barely escaped. “Mierda santa…”

“Right?” The girl from the shuttle—pink hair, and controlled eyes—slid next to him, her voice low as she spoke. “It’s like someone took every restricted tech doc and actually ran the builds.”

Pedro blinked. “I was gonna say terrifying. But yeah. Impressive.”

She half-smiled as she walked forward. “Toni Cho,” she said, like it was her order at a café.

“Pedro. Pedro O’Hara. I—uh. Fix things.”

Smooth.

“Funny. I break ‘em.”

He didn’t get a chance to ask what she meant by that as the elevator swallowed them. The doors shut with a whisper and, without a second to waste, they went down, faster and faster judging from the floor readout above them.

Except it didn’t feel like movement. Pedro didn’t feel the slightest bit of indertia drop, just barely a pressure shift, like they were melting through the floor instead of falling.

Kinetic dampeners, his brain whispered. Only made sense on an elevator as high-speed as this one.

The doors slid open into a wide room, like a damn flagship briefing center. All white walls, filled with arc tables and every chair had a name.

Pedro found his—O’Hara, P.—and dropped in, sliding his bag under the desk and trying not to fidget.

Dev didn’t sit as everyone else did. The Legion leader just stood up front, directly in the middle of the main table.

“ADAM,” he said, voice calm and clear. “Link us up.”

The room dimmed as Pedro glanced around, confused.

Blue light pooled from the ceiling and walls, from apertures so small he couldn’t make them out. The light layered over each other, forming textures, then finally forming a shape.

The shape of a man.

Young. Black. Late twenties maybe, if that. Clean but casual. Rolled sleeves, smartcut pants, sneakers that cost more than Pedro’s whole savings cache. 

Aviators perched just low enough to see the edge of his brow. And the smirk.

Pedro’s breath stuck somewhere between his throat and chest.

Zedd Victors.

Full holo. High-res. No alias. No PR mask. Just him. More solid than he had any right to be.

Brochure Zedd was impressive. Extranet Zedd was aspirational. This? This was real. He was bigger than he looked on a screen, shoulders somehow broader.

Pedro’s brain fizzed. No useful thought formed, just loops. That’s him. That’s actually him. That’s—

Zedd adjusted his glasses, his smile widening by a millimeter.

“Hello, everyone. Thanks for accepting my personal invitation. I was worried some of you wouldn’t accept.” Nobody said anything, money and the offer of more along with a name like Victory Innovations was a draw on its own too appealing to ignore and everyone knew he knew that. “I know the trip was probably hell. Anyway… I’m sure you’ve got questions.”

Pedro had about eight thousand questions queued in his brain’s malfunctioning inbox, none of them phrased properly, all of them circling the same weird spiral. Why me? What the hell was this job? Was it legal? Did it count as a job if you didn’t apply? And more importantly, could he still bounce if he faked a bathroom emergency and walked backwards into a wall hard enough to knock himself out?

He didn’t get to ask.

Gravel-voiced, world-wrecked, and somehow louder without raising his volume, the long-haired guy at the end of the table spoke first. “Yeah. You paid my ransom from the Blue Suns. Why?” His face didn’t move much when he talked, but the way he said it made it clear this was not gratitude. “I ain’t apply to nothin’.”

Pedro’s stomach hit the floor. Ransom? Did he hear that right? Was that normal here? Was that just, like, part of the onboarding process?

Zedd didn’t blink. Not that he could—holo and all—but even in full projection, the dude exuded something Pedro couldn’t quite process. Cool confidence, sharp as a vibroblade. “Usually,” Zedd said with that too-clean smile, “when one is freed from slavery, the appropriate response is thank you.”

Hector—that was definitely a Hector voice—just stared back. No thanks, no blinking, just full-on slow burn.

Pedro internally facepalmed. Oh good. This is going great. Love a hostile energy opener. Definitely not the kind of setting where you’ll get dismembered mid-meeting.

Zedd kept going, the smile like armor plating over some other expression Pedro couldn’t name. “At least introduce yourself. To the others, if not to me.”

The man exhaled through his nose like a bull being asked to fill out paperwork. “Hector Castellione Jr.”

Zedd nodded once, like a teacher pretending that counted. “Thank you for that.” His voice didn’t change, but something in it tilted, like he was already rerouting the conversation. “And yes, I purchased your contract from the Blue Suns. Because I was of the opinion that a man like you would accomplish far more on the outside than in a cage.”

Hector squinted. “Whaddya mean, exactly?”

Zedd didn’t hesitate. Just started pointing like he was clicking through a presentation. “She’s a colony resilience advisor.” The motion flicked toward the dark-skinned woman with the tight braid and killer posture. Then to the mountain of a guy next to her. “He’s a merc with a death wish.” Next were the redhead and her platinum-haired maybe-brother. “Terrorists on the run.” A casual flick toward Toni beside Pedro. “Tech innovator.”

The bald guy? “Alliance sharpshooter, recently court-martialed.” That left—yep. Pedro.

Zedd looked at him. Not through him. At him. Pinning him to his chair like he’d stepped on a live current. “And you,” Zedd said, smile thinning just enough to sting, “are a slacker too scared of failure to apply himself.”

Pedro’s heart dropped out of his chest and kept falling. His mouth stayed shut, but his face was already betraying him—heat blooming in his ears, shame crawling down his spine like cold static.

He’s not wrong. Fuck, he’s not wrong. That’s the worst part. He’s not fucking wrong.

The files. Of course they found the files. The failed scholarship apps. The dropped apprenticeship. The school deferments that turned into incompletes that turned into nothing at all. Every half-finished repair job abandoned the second it went from curiosity to responsibility. The pattern was so obvious, it probably autofilled itself in his file header.

But the way Zedd said it—flat, direct, no sneer, no pity—cut deeper than if he’d yelled it.

“What do you all have in common?” Zedd asked, looking around the table like he already knew none of them did.

Pedro almost wanted to say it. We don’t. That was the whole point, right?

But then Zedd smiled again, and this time it wasn’t razor-sharp—it was just… tired. Real. The kind of expression that said I know what I’m doing, even if you don’t yet.

“You all wanna help people,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the galaxy. “And that means more than you think in this fucked up galaxy.”

Pedro opened his mouth to argue. To say something like, I don’t— but the words died before they formed. Because what if—

No. No, he didn’t help people. He helped things. Machines. Circuits. Devices. People were messier. People had expectations. People broke in ways he didn’t know how to fix.

Still. 

“So, consider your interviews over,” Zedd said, stepping back. “And your applications accepted and approved.”

His smile snapped back into place, sharp again, polished but not fake. “Welcome to the GUARDIAN program.”