Massive Disaster 4-6 (Patreon)

Zedd fought back the ruge to let out a yawn.Four hours of sleep.Not ideal, but workable.Not even complaining. Not that he ever did when it came to sleep, but he really had no reason to whine about only four hours now. That was definitely enough for him at this point.The CEO rolled his shoulders, feeling the enhanced muscles shifting beneath skin that still sometimes felt like it belonged to someone else. The basement lab hummed around him, equipment cycling up and lights flickering on as his awakening triggered automated sequences. Billions of credits of gear designed by him and he loved every inch of it like he was married to it.

The white walls caught the light differently down here than upstairs in the manor’s minimalist showroom aesthetic. Here it was his white—functional, antiseptic, purpose-built. Not that decorative bullshit some interior decorator had chosen before Governor Shen-Abraham handed him the keys. Three years ago felt like thirty, the repair kid with a garage business suddenly owning property because he’d cobbled together enough hardware to help drive off a Batarian raiding party.

Now he built people instead of omni-tools. Upgraded problem.

“Morning, ANGEL. Busy day.” His white and gold drone hovered at shoulder height, multiple arms folded against its spherical body. The central eye pulsed in response—still adapting to her new programming architecture. Fifteen hours wasn’t long for a NetNavi personality matrix to stabilize, but she’d been a good drone for two years before that. Good enough foundation.

“Good morning, Dr. Victors.” The German accent was probably excessive, but he honestly didn’t fault ADAM for adding a few flourishes to his sister. Besides, people heard German, they thought precision, efficiency, medical expertise. Pure psychology. Plus it annoyed the hell out of actual Germans, which was just bonus entertainment.

“Not a doctor,” he corrected automatically, already scrolling through prep data on his omni-tool as he tried to hold back a laugh at the idea that his AI was already creating her own sense of humor. “Schedule the subjects at two-hour intervals. I want time between conversations and procedures.”

“Of course, father.” ANGEL’s voice synthesizer was much smoother compared to last night already. Granted, he’d spliced in phonemes from that actress in the ancient medical drama his mom used to watch. Ziegler or something. “Subject ANANSI will arrive in twenty minutes.”

Right. Pedro first. The easy one.

Three distinct surgical stations dominated the lab space. First contained a tank of blue fluid with suspension apparatus—ANANSI’s neuromods would need total immersion for proper neural adhesion. Second featured a standing chamber ringed with a hundred injection ports—TITAN’s nanite infusion required mobility restriction but vertical orientation. Third held a traditional operating table surrounded by robotic arms—GRIM’s extensive reconstruction needed maximum flexibility.

Each procedure different, each gamble calculated. The human brain shouldn’t handle this level of enhancement, but his modeling said otherwise. The simulations all pointed to viable outcomes, assuming he hadn’t missed something obvious. Which of course he probably had, because that’s how innovation worked—ninety-eight percent preparation, two percent “oh fuck, that’s not supposed to happen.”

He’d planned for every contingency he could think of, which honestly was statistically never enough. Granted, this whole idea had started off as a manic plan that was probably born from too many nights of working himself too hard and sleep debt beating him in the face but he was too far in to go back now. Memories of the life he had before and the one he had now made it clear that humanity needed heroes, people to look up to, people to protect them.Still, though, if his weird power hadn’t dropped the Super Soldier Serum into his lap, he probably would’ve gone a different route. Straight weapons would have probably been a bad idea, considering how everyone would copy those quickly if they spread, but maybe…Zedd tilted his head to the side. I mean… mecha is still an option. He nodded after a moment of quiet thought. Note to self: start project RANGER.

Holographic displays populated the air around him, data clustering and reorganizing as he swiped through multiple systems with practiced motions. Subject profiles, procedure parameters, contingency protocols—the whole schematic architecture of transformation. What he was attempting wasn’t technically impossible; it just hadn’t been done successfully before. At least not publicly. Military black sites definitely had similar programs—probably with far higher casualty rates than he was willing to accept.He wasn’t a fucking monster after all. After all the work he spent finding analogues as close as he could throughout this galaxy, both in appearance and personality, he wasn’t risking anyone of them dying for no reason. “ANGEL, give me ANANSI’s neural plasticity scores again.”

The numbers appeared, hovering in blue light. Pedro’s brain activity patterns were almost perfect for the procedure—unnaturally adaptable, like the kid’s neurons were begging to be rewired. Pure dumb evolutionary luck.

“And serum compatibility markers?”

Another data set replaced the first. More good news. Pedro’s system would take to the modified compound without the rejection issues that had plagued him in earlier simulations and… earlier subjects.Of course, “earlier subjects” was a generous way of describing the lab animals he’d originally tested MELD on extensively. None of those died in those records who weren’t already ninety percent likely to die anyway. Mostly.Short lives counted as a terminal illness, right?Footsteps sounded off down the corridor as the elevator dinged and Zedd raised his head.He’d only known the kid for a day or so but his eyes had already tracked how he walked quickly, lightly—like his feet never quite trusted gravity. Made sense, given the kid’s background. Nueva York wasn’t low-grav, but Pedro had spent his formative years in one of the rotating habitats on the edge of the Sol system with his Alliance parents.His body had adapted to near-Earth-normal eventually, but after spending his formative years bouncing between different gravity wells, his movement patterns still carried echoes of someone who expected different physics.

The door hissed open, and Pedro stepped in, fidgeting with the blue-and-white medical linens Zedd had supplied every one of the recruits. Lanky but toned, messy dark hair, olive skin, Pedro’s wide curious eyes darting around the lab, taking in every detail like he was mapping escape routes or just cataloging cool tech. It was hard to tell with Pedro, honestly. 

From the reports Dev and Adele had sent his way, while he could focus sometimes, the kid usually had the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel, but that same hyperawareness made him an exceptional candidate.

“Have a seat. Or stand if you prefer. I know you don’t like staying still.” Zedd gestured to a chair that adjusted its height as Pedro approached. The pneumatics were louder than they should be—mental note to swap them out for the magnetic levitation system he’d been designing last month. Too many projects, not enough time to implement the secondary ones.

“That obvious, huh?” Pedro laughed nervously, choosing to sit even as his legs kept bouncing with excess energy. His accent slipped through—Nueva Yorker base with Latin rhythm and spacer slang stitched in, a linguistic collage that matched his personality.

“I make it my business to know what makes people tick.” Zedd shrugged. “Literally, in your case.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The door slid open, air pressure shifting just enough to make his ears itch. Slow steps, almost too quiet for someone that size.

Zedd didn’t have to look to know who it was—Patrick Rostow, a Krogan-sized human. He was exactly the kind of heavy hitter you don’t put on a battlefield unless you want to end it early. Ex-merc, fractured psyche, murder tally that’d make an Alliance war hero flinch. Even without any enhancement, he was the kind of figure Zedd would have hired anyway.

In short, a perfect candidate for TITAN.

Rostow stepped in, the man big enough to make the medical linens look almost tight despite being tailored for his size, his shoulders straining the fabric. He didn’t slouch, though, and didn’t shrink either.

No, the man just stood there, tall and strong.

“Rostow.” Zedd glanced over, casual. “Drink?”

Patrick blinked, like the question needed translation. “Water.”

Of course.

One word. Rostow never used more than he needed. Three months since he’d signed on and the guy still hadn’t put a full sentence together. Trauma. Communication aversion. PTSD stamped all across and over his file like it was the reason he breathed. Zedd didn’t care much—didn’t need him to chat, just needed him to move. To break things, preferably on command.

He tapped his omni-tool and seconds later, a ittle service drone zipped in from the side room, the blue-plated thing whirring like a curious insect, water glass balanced on its flat top. Patrick took it, grunted something almost like thanks, and swallowed the whole thing in one pull.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

He leaned back on his seat, four fingers and a thumb drumming absently on the metal edge of a workbench. “You have to understand that I expected you’d be capable enough but not to this degree.”Pedro’s eyes flickered, clearly unsure with what Zedd was referring to.“I’m talking about this.”Flicking a visual from his omnitool, he pulled up a holographic model of a human brain on his omnitool, color-coded regions highlighting specific neural activity patterns. The holo-display flared to life as he threw his hand out, the image filling the space between them.Neural pathways glowed in messy lines, color-coded regions pulsing across the gray matter with simulated activity. “Most people don’t process three-dimensional problems like that. Yours does. Plus, reflexes compensate for size. Reaction time’s top two percent. Faster than most people half your weight.”

Zedd raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

Pedro leaned forward, eyes locked on the rotating brain model. “That’s… mine?” Something like awe crept into his voice. “You can actually see how I think?”

“The hardware, not the software.” Zedd zoomed in on the prefrontal cortex region. “But hardware dictates capability. And yours is…” Perfect for what I need. “…uniquely suited for the procedure I have in mind.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“Physical baseline looks good.” Zedd circled the larger man casually, ANGEL drone scanning from multiple angles. “Military?”

“No.” Patrick’s voice carried a slight Russian accent, rougher than his file suggested. “Mining colony. Velikan.”

Zedd knew this, of course. The file was comprehensive. But establishing rapport meant letting subjects believe they were providing new information. People were more compliant when they felt heard. Basic manipulation tactics.

“…Mining colony, huh,” He knew that meant something more in-depth than the mining they did on New Abraham, mechs not really capable and functional for something with as many complications and layered as mining. “That must have been something,” he said to himself, assessing Patrick’s records before the procedure. Baseline readings were essential for post-enhancement comparison.

“I was born… underground.” Patrick’s voice came slowly at first, like he was testing long-unused machinery. “Not like, metaphorically—literally underground.” His massive hands made a vague downward gesture. “Velikan’s sun, it burns too hot, yeah? So we… the colony dug deep. Everything was…”

Zedd blinked up from the documents in front of him. Oh, he’s actually…

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Hector arrived precisely on time, which was the only predictable thing about him. Long unkempt hair, gaunt face with dark circles under bloodshot eyes. His faded Sicilian tan gave his skin an unhealthy pallor, a walking advertisement for multiple system failure. The terminal diagnostic scans weren’t exaggerating—Hector was falling apart from the inside out.

He sat hunched on the exam table, fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh, managing to project both nervous energy and bone-deep exhaustion simultaneously. Medical linens hung loose on his frame despite his lean strength, the garment making him look even more insubstantial than he was.

The tremor in Hector’s hands was anything but unnoticeable, the occasional unfocused gaze much more so.Either way, they were both classic signs of neural degradation. The scans had picked it up, of course, shortly after Hector’s arrival, but seeing the physical manifestation confirmed the progression rate. Six months, maybe eight before total motor control failure. The eezo exposure in those mines, on top of other toxins, had done a number on him, deeper than most could imagine.Being a survivor was a great trait to have, sure. There was no denying that much. Even still, some of the time… it just meant that when you died, you died slow.

“…so what am I getting, doc?” Hector’s bravado wasn’t a feint, the man just as gruff as he usually was. He knew something was up with him but the man didn’t have much to say about it.

“First, not a doctor.” Zedd flipped the omnitool display toward him, though they both knew Hector couldn’t interpret the complex medical data. “Second, here’s the rundown.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“So what exactly am I signing up for here?” Pedro’s gaze never left the holographic brain. “The others gave me the ‘miracle upgrade’ speech, but they were kinda light on details.”

Zedd dismissed the brain model and pulled up a different display—a stylized human nervous system. “You’re getting something a bit more comprehensive than the others.”

Pedro’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“Are you scared of spiders?”

That got his attention. Pedro’s eyes snapped to Zedd’s face, confusion evident. “…no?”

“Good.” Zedd smiled, genuine satisfaction warming his chest. “This is what I call Subject ANANSI, in this case you.” His grin widened. “You are my Subjec ANANSI. I plan to give you a genetic rewrite suite based on arachnid neurobiology—specifically a crossbreed of jumping spider, Net-Casting spider and Darwin’s Bark. Hyper-reactive pupils will enhance your threat detection by 450%. Adrenal neurosympathy will accelerate your reflex responses to 0.2 milliseconds, and the depth perception optimization will—”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“Rusted drills, ration packs. Extractors running day, night.” Patrick continued his unexpected monologue, voice gaining momentum.

“My parents worked those machines until…” He made a wheezing sound, mimicking lung failure. “Me and Lana—that’s my little sister—we grew up in the noise. Hydraulic pumps, pressure alarms… always hungry.”

Fascinating. The comprehensive psychological profile hadn’t predicted this sudden communication shift. Three months of monosyllabic responses, and now, minutes before a potentially (if unlikely) fatal procedure, the man decides to unburden himself? The timing suggested pre-mortality anxiety, but the content was too specific, too structured. Like he’d been rehearsing this.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“You’ve got early-stage pulmonary fibrosis—probably from whatever dust they had you breathing in the mines. Scarring’s started in both lungs, slow progression, but irreversible. You’ll feel fine for a while, maybe just a cough here and there, but once it hits threshold? It’s downhill.”

Hector’s face remained carefully neutral, but his fingers stopped drumming. Good. He was listening.

“On top of that, your blood panels lit up—your marrow’s damaged. Looks like myelodysplastic syndrome, likely radiation-induced. Could stay stable for a bit, or it could flip to full-blown leukemia in the next year or two. No way to know.”

The grin that had been plastered on Hector’s face began to fade. Zedd continued methodically, not cruel but not softening the reality either. The man deserved to know exactly what he was facing—and what the procedure would save him from.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“Wh… what? Like, I’ll actually be able to like… climb walls?” The look on Pedro’s face was enough to make Zedd smirk. God, I feel like Santa.

“If you’re this hyped up over wall-climbing, you won’t believe what’s next, I’m serious,” Zedd said as he brought up another diagnostic display. “The bioelectric sensory array I plan to give you will effectively allow 360-degree threat detection within a five-meter radius at minimum.” Zedd’s smile grew a little more at finally making his plan of the last two years a reality. “Before you ask how, it’s through enhanced sensitivity to air pressure fluctuations and electrostatic field variances.”

Pedro’s eyes widened further, fingers twitching as if already feeling the changes. “Wh… whoa.”

Zedd shook his head as he kept his smile from growing, the kid’s enthusiasm was that contagious. “The muscle fiber density enhancement is the most radical part. Carbon-nanotube modifications will amplify your contractile force to five-ton lift capacity at minimum.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“School wasn’t… I left at twelve.” Patrick’s shoulders hunched slightly. “Too big to ignore, too poor to… matter. So I hauled ore for food credits. Got used to the weight.”

His massive hands flexed unconsciously, remembering phantom burdens. “By fifteen, I could…” He mimed throwing something. “Across a tunnel. Grown man, no problem. By sixteen, fixing security drones between shifts.”

Patrick’s eyes shifted downward, Zedd watching as the big man’s voice went even lower than his eyes. “All for Lana. Datapads for her. Toys. Got her one decent omnitool, once.”

Wow. He is really telling me his life story.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“…also, your liver and kidneys are working overtime to keep up with the chemical exposure, overwork and starvation trauma—you’ve got severe degeneration markers across both. No immediate failure, but that only compounds your months left to live as I mentioned before.”

His omnitool displayed each system as he spoke, red indicators lighting up and glowing if that wasn’t enough to bring the point home. His eyesight’s going too, so it’s probably necessary. “And I don’t like the neural response lag I’m seeing, either—seems like early-onset nerve degradation from heavy metals or eezo contact. It’s subtle now, sure, but expect tremors, memory glitches, maybe motor issues before year’s end.”

“…oh.” The single syllable carried the weight of realization. Hector had known something was wrong—you didn’t survive the mines without developing a sense for your body’s warning signs—but the comprehensive nature of his deterioration was clearly hitting home.

“Yeah.” Zedd nodded. “And one more thing— found eezo nodules forming in soft tissue. Tiny clusters, deep-tissue embedded, probably from chronic exposure. That’s… rare. Usually only shows up in uncontrolled biotic development, but in your case? They’re not active. They’re cancerous.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“I could throw a car?”He nodded in response. “You could throw a car, leap 30 meters straight up, or punch through concrete. Your choice.” Zedd watched the young man’s reaction carefully. He had expected some of the subjects to show  at least some hesitation when faced with the scope of the changes. Pedro just looked like Christmas had come early. Yeah, I’m his Santa.

“Any… side effects?” At least he was smart enough to ask, even if the question came as an afterthought.

“Your metabolism will increase substantially to support the enhancements. You’ll need to eat roughly three times your current caloric intake. Sleep requirements will decrease to approximately four hours per day. There’s a small chance of sensory overload during the adaptation period—your brain learning to process all the new inputs.”

Pedro was already nodding before Zedd finished. “I’m in. Let’s do it.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“Then at twenty, the pirates…” Patrick’s voice fractured slightly, emotion bleeding through. “No warning. Just a spike in the EM field, then… screaming.”

His massive body tensed visibly, jaw muscles working. “They took eight girls from the hab-blocks. Lana was…” He swallowed hard. “She was one of them.”

For the first time, real emotion infused the mercenary’s voice. Zedd’s interest sharpened. This was the core trauma, the psychological fulcrum point. Valuable data for post-enhancement behavioral prediction.

“I tried to stop them. I… there were five of them. I used a mining drill and a cutting torch. There was…” Patrick’s hands made a spreading gesture. “Pieces everywhere. But it didn’t… they still got away. With her.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Hector’s face drained of what little color it had. Zedd continued, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. This wasn’t about sadism—it was about informed consent. The procedure was experimental enough without adding deception to the mix.

“Element zero at that density breaks cell regulation. You’re looking at slow metastasis across multiple organ systems. No clean removal, no biotic amp to burn it out, and no medigel can touch it. If it spreads to your brain or spine, that’s it. 99% of doctors won’t operate on that.”

“…oh.” Hector’s second repetition was quieter, the reality clearly sinking in for the man.

Zedd summarized bluntly, “Put simply? On your own, you’ve got a few years left, maybe a few hard months if you catch a cold, and you probably wouldn’t have known it unless I ran these scans. No cure, no miracle fix—not unless someone entirely rewrites your genome or swaps most of your organs, spine, eyes and nerves out. As well as all of your marrow.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“Last chance to back out. Once we start, there’s no reversing the process.” Zedd’s tone was neutral, giving Pedro one final opportunity to reconsider.

Pedro just grinned, signing the digital authorization with barely a glance at the contents. “Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for something like this my whole life.”

Adaptive, optimistic, reckless—my perfect Spider-Man. Zedd noted the lack of hesitation, filing it away as both a positive indicator for procedure compatibility and a potential risk factor for post-enhancement behavioral stability. High-risk personalities tended to push new capabilities beyond safety parameters.

Just like Zedd himself would.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“The colony just… they buried it. Like it never happened.” Patrick’s voice hardened. “No help from Alliance. No rescue teams. No names.”

The former miner made a dismissive gesture with one massive hand. “Velikan wasn’t strategic, they said. Told me Lana was probably…” He didn’t finish the sentence. “Told me to move on.”

Patrick’s eyes met Zedd’s directly. “I moved off-world instead.”

Zedd checked his omni-tool, patience wearing thin. The procedure window was closing. ANGEL would need at least fifteen more minutes to prep the nanite solution to Patrick’s specific physiological parameters.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Hope flickered across Hector’s face. “Can… can you…”

“Rewrite your genome?” Zedd shook his head. “No, the level of genetic damage the metal poisoning and radiation did to you is beyond my ability to handle anytime soon. I could try but we’d be risking complete genetic degradation.” It was only a five percent risk, but that was far more of a risk than he was comfortable with. A loss of one would kill morale on top of that which made it even less worth an attempt.

Hector’s expression settled into something like acceptance. “Okay.” The resignation in his voice was almost worse than fear would have been.

Zedd let the moment stretch, then casually added, “What I can do is make you a sick-ass cyborg though.”

The transformation was instantaneous. Hector’s expression shifted from resigned acceptance to startled hope, eyes widening. “Fuck yeah, do that, doc.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“Been chasing pirate work ever since.” Patrick’s speech pattern grew choppy again, as if exhausted by the uncharacteristic verbal outpouring. “High-risk planetary jobs. Near slaver routes, deep-space outposts. Anywhere they might be.”

Zedd stifled a yawn. He’d heard variations of this story dozens of times—the traumatic loss, the quest for revenge, the single-minded pursuit. Statistically predictable behavior patterns following certain trauma profiles. Useful for prediction modeling but tedious to listen to in real time.

“I’m not… I’m quiet.” Patrick gestured at himself. “But not gentle. If I find them… when I find them…” His massive hands clenched. “I make it personal.”

Finally, the narrative seemed to be winding down. Patrick’s voice tapered off after what felt like an eternity of unexpected disclosure. “If I ask about anyone named Lana… don’t lie. You won’t… there isn’t a second chance.” A heavy pause. “I’m not in it for the war. For her. I’m not done. Not until I find her.”

Silence stretched between them. Zedd processed the information, updating psychological parameters for the procedure. The data was valuable, if unexpected. He’d need to adjust the amygdala interface settings to account for the obsessive fixation patterns.

“…wow, that’s… you’ve been through a lot,” he finally offered, not entirely simulated empathy. The man’s suffering was real, even if his reaction to it followed statistically predictable patterns.

“Thank you.” Patrick’s response was quiet, almost formal.

Zedd refocused on the task at hand. “But all I wanted to know is are you willing to allow me to replace your second layer of skin with nanotechnology?”

Patrick didn’t hesitate. “…yes.”

“Bitchin’.” Zedd nodded, relieved to get back on schedule.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“Fair warning—you won’t look entirely the same,” Zedd continued with a casual click of his tongue. “The extent of replacement we’re talking about… there will be seams, visible mechanical components.”

Hector scoffed. “Do I look like someone who gives a shit about pretty? I just want to live.”

Perfect. Another variable eliminated. He expected some subjects to get hung up on cosmetic concerns, wanting to hide their enhancements. He already would have to manage that with one of the Twins. Hector’s pragmatism would simplify the process.

“Let’s get started then.” Zedd pulled up the schematics, showing the comprehensive reconstruction plan. This would be the most extensive of the three procedures—nearly 80% replacement of Hector’s failing organic systems.

As Hector examined the schematics with a mixture of wonder and apprehension, Zedd ran final calculations on the procedural risk factors. The subject’s advanced cellular deterioration complicated matters, but not insurmountably. They’d need to work fast—cell death would accelerate once they opened him up and exposed failing systems to additional stress.

A challenge. A gamble. A calculated risk.

Just the way Zedd liked it.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

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