Massive Disaster 4-5 (Patreon)

Wealth was a thing that was easily noticeable.

Even when subtle, you couldn’t get away from it.

And this room was made with so much wealth that it was almost sickening to think about. Just a guest room too.

She sat atop real silk, the actual fabric made from worms, cool and smooth as she touched her palm to it. Madelyn pressed her thumb harder against the fabric, like the texture might change if she forced it. Synthetic would have been easier, something she could understand. Maybe even something like the Alliance med facility sheets that rubbed her cracked and burnt skin raw, even as she could barely feel it through half-dead nerves and sloughed-off skin.

She purposely did her best to ignore the sheer cost of all this, even more so with the sheer cost of transportation through the Terminus to get here in any reasonable amount of time. Despite her best, she quickly failed. Thirty… no, forty-thousand credits… per item? She blinked at that realization, and blinked again, green eyes fluttering as she realized she was probably still off in her estimation. Maybe fifty…

And that was just for one set of blankets and bedding, ignoring all the rooms this manor seemed to have.

She perched on the edge, legs pulled in, toes grazing the floor. Scot moved around the room—careful, deliberate, like he was making sure his movements wouldn’t splinter the space.

Scot did things different now.

Before he’d be counting his steps, always calculating, now he did instinctively what formerly took conscious thought. Her boyfriend turned his head to the side and the violet in his eyes caught the light, dark skin as perfect and unmarred as hers was.

Madelyn’s gaze dropped to her hands, no more trembling in her digits or limbs. She curled her fingers, let the dull ache remind her she wasn’t fragile anymore, that her skin no longer cracked open and bled just from moving wrong.

“Maddy… babydoll…” Scot’s voice broke the silence, low and steady as ever. “You know I hate saying it…” He didn’t look at her when he said it—just kept folding his jacket, smoothing creases like it was a problem he could solve.

“I’m doing it again, I know, I know,” Madelyn didn’t look up, just let the corners of her mouth twitch in acknowledgment. He noticed so much more now and she loved that about him. Always catches everything with those eyes. Her parents, her sister, they all thought it was sweet, how attuned he’d become to her, her needs. They really thought it was just love.

And funny enough, they weren’t entirely wrong.

It was Scot’s way of showing love, that was true enough.

They just didn’t get that it wasn’t romance—it was data. Trajectory. Micro-expressions processed faster than she could even feel them. The thought made her want to laugh, almost.

Pale fingers with fresh skin barely seven months old loosened their grip on the sheets and turned to tracing idle patterns in them instead. “Making sure everything’s where I left it.”

Her fingers found their way to her hair – still red, still curly, still hers. The fact that she had hair at all was a miracle. The doctors had told her parents it would never grow back, that the follicles were too damaged. That had been the least of her concerns at the time, but now…

Scot’s hand covered hers, stilling the nervous movement she hadn’t realized she was making. “You don’t have to go through with this tomorrow.”

The muscles in her jaw tightened. She’d spent months unable to move, months more relearning basic functions. She’d sat in therapy talking about acceptance and limitations and realistic expectations. She’d listened to specialists explain with careful, practiced pity what her life would look like going forward.

And then Zedd Victors had swept in and erased all of it with technology nobody was supposed to have.

“Babe, I do… ” The words came out with heat in them, harder than she intended, rougher than she meant. Madelyn bit her tongue before she spoke again, squeezing his hand as she leaned into him.  “Listen to me, Scot, I really do.”He stared back and nodded, intensity in those new purple eyes of his before he turned back to look straight forward. Her green eyes followed his, scanning the space around them once again.

His room was too big.That’s what bothered her most about this place – the sheer waste of it all. Both of their dorms back at Nova Kasiopeia could have fit in this bedroom five times over. She’d grown up in a Dublin apartment half this size with her entire family. The excess made her skin prickle with something between awe and resentment.

“Do you ever just get lost in here?” she asked, gesturing at the sprawling chamber with its minimalist luxury. “It’s bigger than my entire childhood flat.”

“It’s just space, brighteyes,” he responded with a shrug, clearly not understanding what she actually meant. For someone who could see so much now, he definitely had his blind spots.

“Just space,” she echoed, voice low and heat turning dry. “Right.”

Those purple eyes turned to face her and he didn’t say a word. Neither did she.That was one thing that hadn’t changed – they’d always been able to sit in quiet together, even before they were dating, back when she was just a psych student with too many ideas and not enough sleep.

Before the Batarians came.

Her mind flickered back to that day without permission – Zedd Victors on the stage at Nova Kasiopeia, announcing some new product she couldn’t even remember now. She’d been annoyed at having to attend, had complained to Scot about corporate propaganda taking over their education. So fucking trivial.

And then during the tour, the alarms rang out. The screaming. The distinctive sound of weapons fire cutting through the crowd.

She and Scot had been helping evacuate the younger students when the building supports gave way. The last thing she remembered was pushing a first-year toward the exit, then heat. Nothing but heat and pressure and darkness.

“You’ve still never told me,” she said, pulling herself back from the memory before it could drag her under. “About what happened today.”

Scot’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. “With the car?”

“With your eyes, Scot.” She turned toward him, tucking one leg underneath her. “I’ve seen the beam before, but never that color. Never that… intense.”

She didn’t mention what the others were saying – that Scot had nearly killed Zedd and his inner circle. That the car had flipped three times before crashing. That if his boss’s tech wasn’t so good, all their bodies would be decorating the mansion’s front lawn right now.

Scot’s expression shifted, the calculation behind his eyes becoming more apparent as he formulated a response. “I was showing the new recruits what they could expect after the procedure. Demonstrating control parameters.”

“And?”

“And I lost control.” His voice tightened, clinical and detached in that way he got when he was processing something he didn’t want to feel. “Beam went wide. Clipped the car.”

Madelyn didn’t push. She knew what he wasn’t saying – that his abilities were growing faster than his control. That even Zedd seemed surprised by the rate of his development. That sometimes, late at night, she caught him staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else.

Instead, she changed tack. “I still don’t understand why he does all this.” She gestured at the room, the mansion beyond it. “Normal billionaires don’t just… give people unlimited access to their homes. Their money.”

“Trillionaires,” her boyfriend corrected idly, dodging the question.“Scot.”Her boyfriend’s face clenched up, expression tight as he gave in with a groan. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the sleek black and blue credit chit. “Fine, fine, I just pay for everything with this.”

Madelyn stared at the thing. “You really have no idea how much he’s giving you?”

“Nah.” The single syllable hit the air, flat and certain. Simple, but pulling everything up with it, all the half-formed worries and unspoken fears.

Scot’s eyes didn’t move from the chit in his hand, fingers turning it over like a machine. Calm. Unbothered. How does he just—

A short laugh slipped out before she could stop it, brittle at the edges. “And you don’t think that’s crazy? As something maybe worth questioning?”

His hand stilled, and he looked up—just a flicker of something human before his face settled back into that smooth calm. “Of course it is… Maddy, I’m not an idiot, okay. But what am I supposed to do? Say no?” The question hung between them, the silence no longer comfortable as it edged closer to awkward and tense. “He fixed my eyes. Babydoll, he fixed you.”

Maddy bit down on her tongue, heat in her gut rising and swirling into something that she wasn’t sure how to describe. How do you describe a mix of gratitude and resentment both, when you weren’t even able to explain the second part? “I…I know.” She reached out, plucked the chit from his fingers and set it down on the nightstand, firm but not harsh. “I know.”

The mansion’s atmospheric systems hummed to life, cooling the room. Same mechanical drone as every other building, no matter how lavish. Somehow, that was a comfort—like even in this place, some things stayed basic.

She leaned back, comfortable in the action after seven months of growing used to it. She used to brace for pain, for that raw nerve fire—phantom heat where her body had burned.

“He did it so quickly,” she whispered, more to herself than to Scot. “Two weeks. He put me under and I woke up in that tank in his lab. A whole two weeks later, and it was like it never happened. He even grew my hair back.” Her hand found her hair, fingertips tracing curls, still amazed it was there at all. They said it wouldn’t grow back. They’d said a lot of things. “I look in the mirror sometimes,” she continued, finger catching on a stray lock of hair curled tight, “and I’m still shocked that I’m… me.”

Her boyfriend moved closer, his presence solid and warm, humming with life in a way she knew wasn’t normal, but she loved either way. “Is that why you want to do the procedure? To be more like… me?”

Madelyn orced herself to look at him, not at the floor, as she spoke next. “Part of it,” she allowed. “But not all.”

The room felt smaller suddenly, air thick like smoke. Memories bled in—hospital lights, antiseptic, her mother’s shaking hands. Being told what she could and couldn’t do. Doctors talking around her, like her ears had burned off with the skin.

Six months of being so helpless, dependent, watching her body betray her. Six months before that of being in a coma completely, not even conscious to have a say as the world passed her by. Letting decisions happen without her, because she couldn’t fight them.

Her hands curled into fists, blunt nails pressing into new skin. “I spent six months trapped in a body that wouldn’t obey me. Everyone else making choices—what I needed, what I could handle, what I deserved to know.” Her jaw tightened, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “I’m not going back to that. Ever.”

Scot’s silence felt thick, thoughtful. He wasn’t good at rushing into words, even now. As much as she loved her man, he had the constant need to measure them out, like he was afraid of breaking something.

Finally, he asked, “What’s it like?”

Madelyn blinked. “What?”

“Doing what I can do.” He met her gaze, and there was nothing distant about it—just raw curiosity, cutting through the weight between them. “You asked what my abilities feel like. But I never asked you what you think it would be like. To have them yourself.”

Madelyn almost smiled. A real one. Of course that would be his question—so straightforward it almost hurt. Scot never assumed he knew what she thought, not even when it was obvious.

“I think…” She traced the edge of the sheet with her finger, grounding herself. “I think it would feel like getting my body back. But more. Like taking control of everything they took from me.”

He nodded, slow, thoughtful. “It’s like I was blind,” he said, almost to himself.

Her head snapped up, and she smacked his arm lightly. “Stop it. You’re not blind.”

He didn’t flinch, just looked at her, too serious for the moment. “No. I mean it.” He shook his head, like clearing a fog. “I might as well have been. Before all this… the world was smaller. Quieter. Now it’s like everything’s sharper. Makes sense. I can see how it all connects.”

His certainty made her uneasy—like he was too willing to see it as an upgrade, not a change. “Wow, I… I just… that sounds…”

Scot tilted his head, already slowly nodding. “Insan—”

“Amazing,” she finished, cutting him off.

And then his lips were on hers, solid and warm and real, and she was falling backward onto the bed, his weight following her down. His hands found her waist, slid up under her shirt, palm hot against her skin. She felt herself responding, body arching up to meet his, tension transmuting into a different kind of heat. She had gained weight since getting out of that tube, but Scot didn’t mind. He loved her body even more almost.

For a while, there were no more words, just sensation – the press of his body against hers, the taste of his mouth, the rhythm they’d found together long before any of this happened. When his fingers brushed over the places where her scars should have been, she didn’t flinch. Didn’t feel the phantom pain. Just heat, and want, and the grounding reality of being touched by someone who knew every inch of her – both before and after.

Later, as they lay tangled together in those too-soft sheets, the mansion’s automated systems dimming the lights around them, her thoughts drifted back to tomorrow. To what waited for her in that sterile white lab beneath the mansion.

“You’ll stay with me?” she asked, voice quiet in the darkness. “Through all of it?”

Scot’s arm tightened around her. “Every second.”

She believed him. Whatever else had changed, whatever else was uncertain, she believed that.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Morning arrived with a clinical precision that didn’t match how she felt.

Madelyn hadn’t slept much.

Honestly, both of them hadn’t done much sleeping at all. Scot had a lot of energy and even he didn’t fully nod off till around midnight, his breathing slow and even beside her. She’d just watched the shadows move, waiting for dawn to stop dragging its feet.

The manor always felt too big when it was quiet. Walking through the corridors, her footsteps echoed, too loud, like the place wanted to remind her it wasn’t hers. Two weeks being allowed to stay in the manor with her boyfriend instead of in the barracks with the other recruits, and it still didn’t fit.

She didn’t fit.

Scot moved ahead in full uniform as ‘Beacon’, visor and all. He barely glanced back at her even though she knew his peripheral was good enough he didn’t need to.

His senses caught everything, every shift in her pace. She could almost feel his attention without seeing it.

“You’re tense.” His voice didn’t rise, not that it needed to.

She forced a laugh, a little too sharp. “So smart. You learn all that at Galactic Guardian Academy?” The nickname for the recruit training camp Victory Innovations had set up on Zedd’s property had caught on quickly after Major Victory had started going public, one of his titles that the company had subtly pushed through the extranet was ‘Galactic Guardian.’

His mouth quirked, just a flicker. “Says the girl who spent six months in Galactic Guardian Academy herself.”

The elevator slid to a stop and Scot pressed his hand to the panel. Blue light traced his fingers—system recognizing him without hesitation. Madelyn watched the way it seemed effortless, like he belonged here, and the elevator continued to proceed to the sub-basement.

“Did he ever tell you why?” she asked as they started descending. The rest of what she had to say went unspoken. Why he chose you.

Scot’s jaw tightened, just a fraction. “No.”

“You never asked?” She kept her tone light—curiosity, not doubt. She had held this question to her chest for months now. Months since she had seen his eyes flare purple, since she had seen him put on the visor, since violet light had burst from his irises and tore through solid metal.

His gaze dropped, eyes narrowing as he stared off at nothing. “Would you? If someone offered to fix you when everyone else said it wasn’t possible?”

She wanted to say yes, that she’d question it, demand answers. But that wasn’t true, was it? When you’re drowning, you don’t interrogate the hand that pulls you up. You just hold on.

The elevator chimed open, spilling them into Zedd’s sub-basement lab—the same white, flat, sterile expanse she had spent two unconscious weeks sealed and floating inside a tank in.

Her chest tightened on reflex as she stepped out alongside Scot. Zedd stood at the far left end of the room, the genius in a white lab coat not even glancing up from his holographic display, fingers flicking through data. His drone hovered nearby, the white-gold spherical floater’s mechanical arms shifting through different colored vials.

“Gooood morning, kiddos,” he said, a lazy casual drawl to his voice that was distinctly Earth-based. American, too, and crude at that.

At least in her opinion.

He stood tall, at least six feet on the low end, shoulders broader than they had been when she had first been in his presence two years ago. She very much doubted it was natural growth.

“How’d the two lovebirds sleep?”

Scot answered for both of them. “Well enough.” His hand found the small of her back—gentle pressure, like he knew she needed grounding.

Zedd didn’t bother with pleasantries, the man who reconstituted her body from a burned mess, simply gesturing to a side room. “Get changed. Everything’s set up. You’re first priority, thanks to your boytoy here.” He clicked his tongue and tilted his head toward Scot, said ‘boytoy’ standing at attention like a good little soldier in front of his boss.Seeing her next to him now, Scot seemed to be modeling himself after Zedd; a slimmer, more serious version of the eccentric tech savant. His haircut may have been shorter but it was similar and even his 'Beacon' uniform didn't seem too dissimilar to what Zedd would wear.

Madelyn nodded, nothing to say, as she slipped into the room. Without waiting, she stripped off her clothes in seconds and reached for the medical gown waiting for her, the blue linen garment sitting atop the chair in the room. The gown felt thin, the thing too light against her skin, and yet so comfortable despite the fact that it was entirely disposable fabric. Being this rich makes literally everything top quality, huh?

When she stepped back out, Scot and Zedd had stopped talking, both looking her way. Scot’s mouth tightened, just barely.

“Everything alright?” she asked, voice steady.

Zedd didn’t answer right away, the man scanning her up and down, clinical and cold and with eyes that barely seemed human, as always. “Any second thoughts?”

Her fingers curled tight at her sides. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her doubt, of letting anyone seeing her shake. She respected him, sure, but she would never be that weak. “No.”

Madelyn met his gaze, steady as she could make it. “None.”

Zedd’s mouth curved, quick and sharp into a grin that looked as mocking as it was real. “Good girl.”

She let the words slide over her, kept her spine straight. She didn’t bite back. Down, girl. No, she couldn’t afford to—she was standing in his lab, on his terms, about to let him pump her full of whatever was in those vials, those things full of concoctions that were undoubtedly illegal and unknown in civilized space, serums that would make her strong. Independence wasn’t worth picking a fight over when she was this close.

The examination table sat in the heart of the space waiting for her, sterile white in the center and a cool electric blue at the edges. It sat there waiting for her as Madelyn neared it. Without a moment to waste, the redhead hopped up and dropped her body onto it. Ignoring the slight tension, Madelyn braceda herself against the cool surface. As she finally rested flat on the table, the material seemed to mold itself around and beneath her, adjusting like it was learning her shape.

Scot moved closer, just enough to be within reach. Her boy friend didn’t say anything, and just stayed where she could feel his presence—a wall against the sterile cold. His hand found hers, and she squeezed back without thinking, grateful for the warmth. Even through the gloves, it felt like grounding.

The drone hovered closer, one of its arms extending a set of instruments that gleamed too bright in the harsh light. Needles, vials, something that looked like a laser cutter. She swallowed hard.

Her fingers drifted to her hair without permission. “I don’t have to shave my head or anything, right?”

Zedd didn’t look up, still busy with the holographic display. “Not at all. Hair loss is unlikely, too. Color change, though—still possible. White.. yeah, loss of melanin in hair most likely. Major Victory came out that way.” He tilted his head to the side. “Still not sure why.”

She tried to smother the thought of her curls going silver. Not the worst thing, but it felt too much like losing something that was still hers. “As long as that’s the only risk.”

“Sure,” Zedd said, the word clipped, loaded. She didn’t like the way it hit the air.

Zedd had started talking about several things—psionics, Extremis, cellular restructuring—all things she’d been told of and memorized already. She didn’t bother trying to track every word, letting them wash over her as her mind kept snagging on the what-ifs.

Would it hurt? That one was persistent. A question that wouldn’t leave no matter how hard she tried to push it down. Would it hurt like the burns had hurt?

That constant, screaming agony where her nerves just couldn’t decide whether to fire or die. Would her cells rupture and knit back together at the same time? Or would it just… happen?

Scot had described it as clean, going to sleep one way and waking up another entirely. A switch flipping, and a different type of awareness snapping into focus. She couldn’t imagine that was like, and she didn’t bother trying, but she wasn’t sure if she preferred the sudden unconsciousness and switch or living through a painful transformation.

“Now, the big difference between what Major Victory has and what Scot possesses,” Zedd went on, voice slipping into lecture mode, “is refinement versus limitation. Psionics… is a tricky bitch. Much harder to get right than MELD of all things, that shit’s just plug and play almost.”

He shook his head, a soft laugh escaping his lips. “Anyway… well, every human has a different benchmark and potential marker.” He clicked his tongue thoughtfully as the golden drone whirred past his head. “And this current batch… well, a couple of you have some of the highest potential in a third of the Traverse. Victory’s abilities are diverse but… rather unrefined. Scot’s have a far more narrow band, but much more powerful for that. Yours will be… both.”

She made herself listen, forcing her mind back from the edge of panic. “And the Extremis?” The words came out quieter than she wanted.

“Thermal-regenerative viral vector,” Zedd rattled off the information, like it was nothing, like it meant anything to her. Like it wasn’t an unknown to literally every human in existence that wasn’t one of his trusted people. “The process involves a full body nanite infusion. Rebuilds from the inside out. If you’re not dead, you’ll eventually recover. Doesn’t matter how bad.”

The drone whirred closer, arms shifting, a line of gleaming needles at the ready. Her heart hammered, too fast and too loud. She didn’t mean to squeeze Scot’s hand that hard, but he didn’t flinch, just shifted his grip so their fingers laced tighter.

Scot leaned in, his voice a low murmur, almost lost under the hum of machinery. “I’m right here.”

Zedd moved to the table, face losing its usual casualness, eyes sharp and intent. “You ready, Ms. Ronan?”

Her lungs felt overull and twice as dense as they had been a single second ago, the air in them all of a sudden too heavy. Her mind flashed back to those conscious months she spent in the hospital, lying there while other people decided her future. She remembered that professional pity from doctors explaining how she’d never move like she used to, how the damage was permanent.

Never again.

Her grip on Scot’s hand steadied. “You c… No, call me Madelyn, please. Please. I’ve had enough of Ms. Ronan from doctors,” she said, words firmer than she felt. “And yes, sir.”

Zedd smiled down at her. “Of course… Madelyn.”

The first needle slid in, the entire vial it was connected to full of orange liquid that seemed to glow from what little she could see of it. Extremis. She knew that much, Zedd had shown her all about the stuff. The injection in her upper arm made her eyes go wide as heat bloomed fast, spreading from her arm through her chest, down to her fingertips. W-where’s the anesthetic? The pain wasn’t sharp, but deep—like something clawing its way through her veins, reshaping as it went.

She bit the inside of her cheek, didn’t let herself make a sound. Scot’s hand stayed locked with hers, not moving. Zedd’s eyes flicked to the monitors, tracking numbers she couldn’t see.

The heat built faster and further and further and faster as it surged through her nerves, the sensation making her muscles twist tight.

Another injection, this one deeper as it went deep into the side of her – fuck! — her neck, the needle going deep into a place she didn’t think needles ever should as her body froze before she could even so much as utter a word for the pain. Instead, she breathed through it, forcing her body to stay still. Didn’t matter that her hands wanted to curl into fists, that her jaw ached from holding back.

Scot’s voice cut through the noise. “Madelyn.” There it was, sounding low and steady and calming and caring. “Focus on me, Madelyn. Breathe.”

Her lungs moved, tight at first but with deeper ragged breaths soon after, as she dragged in air that felt too thick, too hot. The fire pooled in her chest, heavy and dense, like it was fighting to spread but didn’t know where to go. She couldn’t see anything past the bright, raw light pressing against her closed eyelids.

Unfotunately the light lost the fight against the encroaching darkness, and Madelyn Ronan was gone.