Massive Disaster 4-16 (Patreon)

The private firing range Zedd kept in his main workshop hummed with the kind of efficient silence that came from high-quality soundproofing and even better engineering, the entire space ucked away in a hidden side-room next to his garage. Zedd cycled through his collection with the methodical precision of someone who'd learned that familiarity bred survival, not contempt.

The Upstart kicked against his palm with satisfying weight, matte black frame and white accents catching the overhead lights as he squeezed off another quick three-round burst. Blue laser pulses carved through the air at a leisurely three hundred meters per second, visible beamtrack painting temporary lines across his vision before the thermal shock bloomed against the target in bright orange flowers of superheated metal. 

Mid-velocity, holsterable, reliable as gravity, and no kickback at all, as expected from a Beam weapon. Still not the strongest shot, though.Also, as expected from a Beam weapon. Zedd clicked his tongue as he aimed and fired again and again, scoring into the target quick little dark bursts of discrete energy. Wish I could just call these things lasers but they aren’t actual laser weaponry, in the slightest. That much was true, but the memories of his weird alt-life with ADVENT had stuck with him in the strangest of ways and calling them Directed-Energy Enforcement Platforms (aka DEEPs) was just so annoyingly boring that he had stuck with the basic category of Beam.

He let the pistol sit silently for a few seconds as he tapped his foot, watching to see the blue ring readout confirm full charge before he shifted to the next weapon on the bench. Big Mouth waited with its beveled muzzle brake and stacked recoil baffles, forward-weighted like a sledgehammer with delusions of subtlety. The pulse rifle bucked downward with each shot as pale blue kinetic force beams snapped through the air, distortion ripples marking their passage before the snap-pop of impact echoed back from the reinforced target wall.

Moderate fire rate, maximum attitude. The toothy grin of the coolant port wasn't ironic. He'd named it exactly what it was.

Three more shots, watching the rifle's auto-correct system compensate for muzzle rise by physically shifting the weapon's balance point. Good tech, borrowed from a dozen different sources and improved until it actually worked instead of just looking impressive on paper. Anyone can build a gun. Building one that hits what you're aiming at while getting hit back, that's the trick.

His thoughts derailed somewhere between reloading and remembering why he was down here burning through ammunition instead of doing something productive with his evening. Right. Toni. Specifically, turning down Toni last night when she'd made it clear that company wouldn't be unwelcome. Side effect of a body with boosted physicality...

He grunted to himself, the sound unnecessary as he fired off a few more rounds with Little Brother, the gauss micro-carbine barely whispering as 3.5mm ferrous flechettes accelerated to hypersonic velocities. Minimal recoil, maximum penetration, and the quiet satisfaction of watching tiny entry wounds become catastrophic exit craters. If you couldn't guess, hormones were part of physicality.

Which meant his enhanced metabolism came with enhanced everything else, including the kind of biological imperatives that made turning down attractive company feel like swimming upstream through molasses. Made sense, from an engineering perspective. Upgrade the hardware, deal with the software complications. Didn't make it less frustrating when his brain kept circling back to what or who he could have been doing instead of standing in a soundproof room ranting at targets that couldn't talk back.

The Hornet's burst laser pattern flickered through the air like fireflies, royal blue body warming in his grip as the subcompact PDW chewed through ammunition with enthusiastic efficiency. Fan-vented fail-safes kept it from cooking off in his hands after extended use, but the thermal residue on impact turned flammable materials into brief celebrations of combustion. Fifteen meters or bust, but sometimes that's all the range you get.

Clean Cut waited at the end of the line, precision marksman weapon with its offset scope rail and rear coil containment glowing faint white through clear housing. Single coherent blue laser blasts designed to slice rather than burn, adjustable refraction allowing for angle shots when geometry mattered more than brute force. He sighted down the scope, watching the charge reservoir brighten as the beam reached full power, then squeezed the trigger.

The visible beam lingered for half a second, bright enough to leave afterimages on his retinas as it carved a perfectly straight line through three separate target sections before the energy finally dissipated. Show-off weapon, but sometimes showing off is the point.

Behind him, the door whispered open with the kind of mechanical precision that meant someone had upgraded the hinges to eliminate any trace of sound. Not that it mattered when the someone in question moved like physics were optional and footsteps were a choice rather than an inevitability.

"What is it, Kai?" Zedd didn't turn around, just set Little Brother back on the weapon bench and started checking the charge levels on the rest of his collection.

It could be no one else but Kai, because the guy made no sound at all when he moved. Which was weird, Because from seeing Kira, Zedd was like 95% sure that wasn't something they taught in N7 training. The whole ninja thing wasn't N7 either. No, Kai was just like that, the freak.

"Nothing, sir."

The flat delivery carried just enough emphasis to suggest that 'nothing' covered a lot of ground, probably including the fact that Zedd had been down here for the better part of two hours. Two hours in which Zedd had made more and more excuses for Kai to go handle stuff and leave him alone. Standard Kai, then. Babysitting disguised as professional concern.

"So, you're just here to babysit as usual? Don't you want a break?" Getting this guy to take any time away for himself required tactics somewhere between negotiation and outright bribery, with the occasional demonstration that personal time wasn't a reward for good behavior. Simply getting him to accept one day off a week basically required Zedd having to prove he could take him on a fight... which was a lot harder than it should have been.

Zedd clicked his tongue in annoyance, more at himself than at Kai's predictable dedication to duty. My fault for giving him a MELD touch-up before that. True enough, it only made the fight harder than it should have been.

"I just took a break for dinner."

"That was ten minutes ago." The words came out sharper than intended, frustration bleeding through in ways that had nothing to do with Kai's eating habits and everything to do with the fact that being in close quarters with a girl last night had reminded him he hadn’t done anything since Nina.

"...I eat fast."

Zedd almost barked out a laugh at that, the unexpected humor catching him off-guard in the way that Kai's rare attempts at levity always did. Kai Leng wasn't one to make jokes and even the jokes he did make were barely jokes at all, but they did manage to hit. Fuck.

The silence stretched between them, comfortable in the way that came from working with someone who didn't need constant validation or explanation. Kai would stand there until Zedd dismissed him or until something actually required his attention, whichever came first. Probably for hours, if necessary, because apparently the concept of personal downtime was fundamentally incompatible with whatever programming ran behind those flat, professional eyes.

Maybe that's the solution. Give him something to focus on that isn't me.

"... you want a new gun, Kai?"

"Not particularly, sir."

The response came without hesitation or elaboration, which meant it was probably honest. Kai used his weapons until they stopped working, then switched to whatever was available, treating firearms like tools rather than extensions of personality. Practical, efficient, and completely lacking in the kind of attachment that made most people want shiny new toys.

"I'm gonna make you a new gun."

"If you want to, sir."

Of course he'd frame it that way. Can't just say yes or no, has to make it about what I want instead of what might actually be useful. Still, the lack of objection meant acceptance, which was about as enthusiastic as Kai got about anything that didn't involve direct orders or immediate threats.

"I'm going to. But you know me... I need some peace and quiet when I create. Which means you can't hang over my shoulder for the next, I don't know... six hours?"

He didn't have to turn around to know that Kai was smirking at the back of his head, that barely-there expression that suggested amusement without actually committing to it. Bullshit was still bullshit, even if the other person pretended to buy it.

"Of course, sir."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The Z-Coupe V2 carved through Providence's skyline like Major Victory’s psionics-propelled shield through the brainpan of an unsuspecting Batarian, the skycar’s obsidian frame catching the last traces of dusk. All the while, electric blue trim pulsed in rhythm with the enhanced kinesis stabilizers and shielding system he’d taken time to build by hand. 

Six hours of promised solitude stretched ahead like a gift he hadn't realized he needed until the silence settled around him without paying attention to footsteps that made no sound, or any flat professional observations about random tactical considerations.

Just him and the kind of restless energy that came with too much time and only four necessary hours of sleep. 

Speaking of restless…

Smart, attractive, interested... and I had to be the responsible one. Fuck. Toni's face flickered through his thoughts again, the way she'd looked when he'd politely declined her invitation last night. Not hurt, exactly, more like confused by the concept of someone turning down what she'd been offering. Which makes fucking two of us, because turning down a hot girl just felt like… He frowned at the thought… Feels like kicking myself in the back of the head.

Realistically, there were plenty more reasons for him not to do anything like that. 

Least of all the fact that it would fuck with teamwork and only make things way more complicated for him in the long run, but fuuuuuuuuuck…

His eyes roamed the street below as the coupe descended toward the commercial district, taking in the flow of foot traffic and skycar patterns. Need to get the fuck out of my head. Public place, normal people, normal problems for a few hours. It was better than sitting inside his house, knowing that there were at least three pretty girls he had wrecked his chances with one way or another, even if he had good reasons for all of them… probably.

He was just finding it hard to justify those reasons to himself right now. Anyway… Zedd shook his head as he focused on the ground. Relax time. You need to relax. 

Without wasting a minute more, he lowered the coupe into its designated space, a private parking spot marked in chrome for “Owner” even as security scanners and two other layers of security confirmed that this car was his and that anyone attempting to touch it would regret the attempt and the next few conscious moments after the fact. Satisfied with his parking job, he stepped out of the car. He wasn’t particularly dressed up for the night out, not that he particularly saw any reason to be. I could come in here in my underwear and they couldn’t say anything. 

Not that he would of course, but the principle of course…Still though, it wasn’t wrong to say that he was dressed down compared to his usual overdesigned jacket but either way you couldn’t go wrong with a blue jacket over a white shirt, and of course he couldn’t go without his custom aviators.

Hell, these things are a whole third of my security.

His restuarant/club/bar sprawled in front of him, three stories of smooth modern architecture that managed to look expensive without screaming about it. Dusk-blue composite along with curved glass and clean lines. In front of it stood a sign read BLU in sharp serif silver, backlit with slow cyan pulse that drew attention without demanding it.

The entry lobby was still the same quiet luxury from the last time he was here just a few weeks ago, all soft uplighting and music from the earliest parts of last century Earth remixed in the modern styles. At the front kiosk leading into the venue, there stood a  proper sharp-dressed young guy in a royal blue vest blinked like he'd seen a ghost. "Mr. Victors?"

"Marcus." He nodded his way, clicking his tongue at the maitre’d.

"Absolutely delightful to see you gracing us this evening, sir. Your customary table awaits, naturally." No matter what you had to say about Marcus, Zedd couldn’t deny the guy was smooth as silk even when caught off guard, always rolling with the punches with an ease that was nothing short of practiced.

"Course it is." Whether or not it was delightful or not, Marcus knew very well which side his bread was buttered on.

"I do feel compelled to mention we're entertaining a rather... eclectic assemblage of patrons tonight." As usual, the wannabe actor’s words were all delivered with theatrical timing, everything he said wrapped in diplomatic phrasing that said everything and nothing.

Zedd's eyebrow climbed high. "Define eclectic."

"Well, sir, perhaps..." Marcus paused as movement caught their attention, a shorter woman approaching with purposeful military stride that screamed former Alliance from a dozen or so feet away

Tan skin, dark hair in professional bun, royal blue pantsuit that couldn't quite hide the fact she'd rather be wearing combat fatigues. Elena Vasquez was a woman with enough attitude and experience that made Zedd feel happy to give her the job of manager.

"Elena, how we doin' tonight?"

"Sir." She moved like a logistics officer, more focused and diligent than graceful. Hell, he could tell that she was doing her best not to salute when she greeted him, which was more funny than anything else. "Heard you askin' about... demographic shifts in our customer base."

Zedd tilted his head. "Somethin' like that, yeah."

"Asari pop'lation on New Abraham's increased sig'nificantly over past few months. They seem... drawn to our estab'lishment." Even as thick as her accent was, the woman’s voice managed to remain clipped and controlled as ever. “Likely, b’cause of the color scheme, y’understand, sir?”

Asari. The word hit his threat assessment like alarm bell, sending calculations cascading through probability matrices he hadn't realized he was running. "Didn't think there were that many Asari on the whole damn planet. When'd that change?"

"Imm'gration records show steady increase past eighteen months. Many citing bus'ness opportunities, some seeking privacy from Citadel politics. Matrons prefer evening dining in Royal. Maidens typically visit Ultra weekends. Tonight's par'ticularly heavy on former."

Marcus stepped closer-

“Of course they do,” Zedd muttered. “Blue lights, privacy, overpriced shrimp... might as well roll out a welcome mat.”

"They do seem to harbor considerable appreciation for the shrimp..."

Zedd tuned the staff out as he gave a moment to think. Asari don't randomly relocate to Terminus colonies. That crystallized with uncomfortable clarity, puzzle pieces clicking together in his head. Hell, Citadel species don't immigrate to backwater worlds for business opportunities unless the business involves things that can't be conducted in Council space.

Privacy from Citadel politics usually meant running from Citadel law enforcement or intelligence operations. Matrons with resources to relocate and reasons to need privacy. Maidens young enough to be expendable if things went sideways.

He already wasn’t liking this and he definitely didn’t like it the more thought he bothered to put into it. Months, just around the time I got back from Terminus.

"Huh." The word came out casual, conversational, giving nothing away while thoughts raced through contingencies and countermeasures. Need more intel before deciding whether this is opportunity or threat, but smart money says both with a side of clusterfuck.

"Interesting." Another casual word, another lie wrapped in nonchalance while his brain shifted into tactical mode. Time to start paying closer attention to who was drinking what and why they'd chosen his establishment for whatever game they were playing.

Because if Asari matrons were establishing beachheads on his planet, they weren't here for the cuisine or the entertainment. They were here for him, or what he represented, or what they thought they could take from him.

All roads leading back to the same question: how much trouble was he in, and how many people was he going to have to kill to get out of it?

"I'll be sure to look into that..."

Zedd shook his head and walked through the entrance, only for his stride to stutter as he cleared the blue-lit incline leading to the restaurant proper. His eyes swept the dining area in automatic threat assessment mode before conscious thought caught up to what he was seeing.

They were not fucking joking.

Several dozen Asari mingled throughout the fully-packed restaurant, purple-blue skin tones catching the ambient lighting like living art installations. Some clustered at tables with other Asari, others scattered among human companions, all engaged in the kind of animated conversation that suggested familiarity rather than first contact diplomacy. This is weird. The math didn't add up, like at all. But I don't care that much right now.

Except he did care, and he just couldn’t do anything about it right now. 

The one empty table always kept for him waited in perfect position, back to the wall with clear sightlines to all entrances. Paranoia as interior design… Zedd clicked his tongue. Maybe I do have problems. Either way, he settled into the chair, letting his mind go vacant.

A young waitress approached with the kind of nervous energy that suggested either first week on the job or someone told her exactly who was at the table she was waiting for. Her hair had been dyed blue, which was nice of her. "Welcome to BLU, Mr. Victors... sir... My name is Sara. May I ask what you'll be having tonight?"

Standard service industry training with a side of barely contained panic. He could read the tells in her posture, the way she held the tablet just a little too tight, the practiced smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Probably got told I'm important but not why, which means she's operating blind and trying not to screw up.

"Garlic butter sautéed shrimp, but before that, a Blue Sky, please. Actually… keep 'em coming."

Sara's confusion flickered across her face like a malfunctioning display. "A Blue Sky, sir?"

Of course she doesn't know. The drink wasn't on the menu of course and Zedd didn’t expect anything different."Just tell the bartender, he'll know."

"Of... of course, sir."

She walked away with the same sort of worried nervous expression you only had when you were brand new to a job and weren’t sure if you were being fucked with. Poor kid, thrown into the deep end without a life vest.

Which brought his thoughts spiraling back to the uncomfortable truth that had been staring him in the face for weeks now. First Nina, then Kira… and at least with Toni, he could admit it to himself. The pattern was there, as much as he hated it. He was the common denominator in every failed relationship, not that Toni qualified as a relationship at all, but you didn’t need to be any kind of smart to see how that would end up.

Used to think being smarter and stronger would make things easier. His gaze drifted across the restaurant, taking in the over two hundred guests engaged in easy conversation over food and alcohol, natural social interaction that looked effortless from the outside. 

Before he could drop into a brood session, Sara returned, carrying a small tumbler on a silver tray, the drink glowing a delicious shade of blue. "Your Blue Sky... sir."

Zedd gave her a simple nod of acknowledgement, watching her retreat before turning his attention to the glass. My baby… 

The Blue Sky was his personal creation, kept off the menu because some things should remain private and personal, and also because some things were just dangerous unless you had the right biology… or one that could adapt to it. Two ounces of Thessian Indigo, ultra-distilled Asari vodka strong enough to make most humans reconsider their life choices, mixed with six ounces of freshly made blueberry lemonade crafted with aggressive sweetness. Real lemons, real blueberries, no concentrate, no fizz, no pulp.

Need something stronger than standard alcohol when your metabolism processes ethanol like candy. The enhanced physiology that made him faster, stronger, more durable also made getting properly drunk an exercise in expensive futility. This combination did the trick, at least until his liver caught up and started processing the alcohol faster than he could consume it.

The first sip hit cold, citrus-sugar snap that made him purse his lips and smile despite everything. The sweetness masked the pure fire underneath, raw metallic vapor of 170-proof liquor climbing up the back of his throat like liquid lightning. Good enough to make you forget you're basically drinking industrial solvent with fruit flavoring.

He continued sipping while watching the restaurant guests navigate their evening with the kind of effortless social grace that he'd never quite mastered. Nearly half of the seventy-odd sections held Asari patrons, scattered throughout in patterns that suggested coordination rather than coincidence. This is either a very bad infiltration or any blue-themed venue just pulls in these blue broads like a black hole.

As he continued his little tangent, the waitress brought out his plate, perfectly arranged garlic butter sautéed shrimp that probably cost more than most people spent on groceries in a month. He began eating with mechanical precision, taste registering as satisfactory while his mind continued processing the social dynamics playing out around him.

This is why I come here. The solitude you could find in a filled room, surrounded by conversations that didn't require his participation, problems that weren't in anyway his responsibility. Restaurant full of strangers having normal conversations about normal problems while I sit here calculating how many Asari constitutes an invasion force.

He took another sip, letting the cold burn wash away the taste of regret and tactical considerations. The Asari presence still nagged at the edge of his awareness, pattern recognition algorithms running background processes while he tried to focus on simple pleasures. Food that tastes good, alcohol that actually works, and six hours of promised solitude courtesy of giving Kai a new project.

Six hours to pretend he was just another twenty-year-old having dinner instead of whatever the hell he'd actually become.

The second Blue Sky arrived without him having to ask, Sara's nervousness replaced by professional efficiency now that she'd figured out the drink wasn't some elaborate test of her knowledge. Good, at least someone's evening is improving.

He settled back in his chair, watching the social theater play out while the alcohol worked its way through his enhanced system with expensive determination. Conversations flowed around him like ambient noise, problems that belonged to other people, concerns that didn't require immediate tactical solutions.

For about thirty minutes, he could almost convince himself this was normal.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

The Asari approached with that particular brand of confidence that took centuries to perfect, midnight dress flowing as she navigated between tables like she owned the place. Zedd tracked her movement over his sunglasses, trying not to make it obvious he was watching. Course she's coming over here. Because why wouldn't she? The universe had a sense of humor about these things.

Is she... no, she's n— of course she is.

"Excuse me, I hope I'm not intruding." She stopped beside his booth, voice carrying that melodic quality most Asari had, the one that made conversations feel like negotiations whether you wanted them to or not. "Would you mind if I joined you? It's rare to have the opportunity to speak with someone of your... caliber."

His eye threatened to twitch. Caliber. Right. He gestured to the empty seat across from him, keeping the movement smooth even though his brain was already cataloguing exit routes and wondering if this was coincidence or coordination. "Go ahead."

She settled with the kind of grace that looked effortless but probably wasn't, every movement precise and economical. Dancer training, maybe, or just centuries of practice making everything look intentional. "Thank you. I'm Lyralei T'Sira. And you, of course, are Zedd Victors."

"Course I am. I own the place." He took another sip of his Blue Sky, studying her. The alcohol was doing its job, but not enough to make this conversation feel like anything other than a hassle already. "You are?"

"A recent arrival to New Abraham. I've heard quite a lot about you before deciding to relocate here." That accent, Thessian but smoothed at the edges, like she'd practiced sounding just foreign enough to be interesting without being alienating. All good reasons to relocate, I'm sure.

"All good things, I hope."

Lyralei's smile revealed absolutely nothing, which was probably the point. "Impressive things. A young human building a company that rivals centuries-old Asari enterprises. That takes remarkable vision."

"Takes work."

"Indeed." She gestured around the restaurant, taking in the lighting, the spacing, the whole carefully constructed atmosphere that cost more than most people made in a year. "You must have put a great deal of effort into such an elegant establishment. The attention to detail, the atmosphere... it speaks to someone who understands sophistication."

She's not just talking about the restaurant. The subtext was about as subtle as a brick through a window, but at least she was being polite about it. "Takes work to get the balance right. Too formal and people don't relax. Too casual and they don't respect the experience."

"Like many things in life, wouldn't you say? The balance between revealing enough to intrigue, while maintaining enough mystery to fascinate."

Sara approached with his shrimp, setting the plate down with the kind of improved confidence that suggested she'd figured out how to handle strange requests without having a panic attack. He nodded his thanks before returning attention to his unexpected dinner companion, who was watching him like he was some kind of puzzle she was trying to solve.

"I've been following Victory Innovations' developments," Lyralei continued, tone shifting into something that might have been business interest if you squinted hard enough. "Revolutionary tech, medical advances, that remarkable medi-gel variant that's been spreading through human space."

"Good marketing team." And good intel, apparently. “But it’s not that revolutionary. We’re still struggling to get it working on anything outside the human genome.” Lies. Lies for days. 

She laughed, the sound genuine enough to almost be believable. "Modest as well. Though I suspect there's far more to your work than what reaches public attention."

Zedd cut into a shrimp, chewing thoughtfully while his mind processed the implications of that statement. Most successful businesses have multiple projects running, but that's not what she's fishing for. "Most successful businesses have multiple projects running."

"Of course. I imagine coordinating such diverse operations requires considerable... flexibility in approach."

There it was. The probe disguised as professional curiosity, testing waters to see how much he'd reveal about operations that definitely weren't part of any public filing. He could feel her measuring his responses, looking for tells or confirmation or whatever intelligence she'd been sent to gather. "What brings an Asari matron to the Terminus? Usually your people prefer Citadel space."

"Opportunity. The Council can be... restrictive. Too many committees, too much oversight for innovative thinking."

"Yeah, bureaucracy's a creativity killer." And a convenient excuse for relocating to somewhere with fewer extradition treaties.

"Exactly." Her eyes brightened like he'd just passed some kind of test. "Out here, brilliant minds can pursue projects without constant interference. Very appealing for someone who values results over procedure."

"Mmmm." He didn't feel like saying anything to that, well aware of what she was getting at. Terminus space, where questions don't get asked as long as the credits clear. The kind of place people came when Council oversight became inconvenient.

Lyralei leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into something almost intimate. "I imagine someone with your intelligence must find most conversations rather... limiting."

Zedd allowed himself a small smile. "Depends on the company."

"How refreshing. Most humans seem intimidated by direct conversation."

"Most humans haven't had to negotiate with alien corporations." Or figure out which ones are fronts for intelligence operations.

"True." Her eyes sparkled with something that definitely wasn't just professional interest. "Though I find confidence quite attractive, regardless of species."

And there's the shift. He took another bite, buying time to process while the conversation headed in a direction that was predictable enough to be boring. She was intelligent, sophisticated, clearly knew more than she was saying. And now the pretense was starting to drop as she continued to speak, Zedd giving her little to go off, but that not stopping the blue woman at all.Her voice lowered, tone matching her posture as she leaned in. "I've found that the most interesting people are those who operate on multiple levels. Public face, private ambitions, hidden depths..."

"Sounds like you're describing most politicians."

"Politicians lack authenticity. You..." She was close enough now that he could smell her perfume, something expensive and subtle that she probably bought just for tonight. "You're genuine in your complexity. It's quite compelling."

Okay, not subtle anymore. The pretense was dropping fast, professional interest sliding into something more personal. He finished his drink, already calculating extraction routes if this turned awkward. "Is that your professional assessment?"

"Among other things." Lyralei's hand moved closer to his on the table, fingertips almost touching. "I have a private suite at the Meridian Hotel. Very discreet, very comfortable. Perfect for... extended discussions about mutual interests."

There it is. No more dancing around the subject, no more diplomatic phrasing. Just a straightforward proposition wrapped in enough sophistication to maintain plausible deniability.

"I find brilliant minds incredibly attractive," she continued, voice dropping to something that was definitely meant to be seductive. "And I suspect you might appreciate someone who can match your... intensity."

Zedd set down his fork, meeting her gaze directly. 

He knew that plenty of humans, hell plenty of species, found Asari attractive and he could see it… aesthetically, at least. But even in his last life, he didn’t ever have really any interest in monster girls, the sci-fi ones included. There was too much uncanny valley with Asari even for him to agree with those people who lost their minds over them. It wasn’t even the head tentacles, (which definitely did not help) but it was more the simple fact that when he thought about it for even a few seconds, it just felt creepy and weird and quite literally a giant galactic trap with periwinkle genitals. …or whatever color they were. He hadn’t gone that in-depth in his research, but that was beside the point more than anything.

A species that could produce viable offspring with any other sapient creature, with seemingly no exceptions to that, and all their children came out as members of their own species? Tell me how that wasn’t excessively suspicious. You didn’t even need the fact that they lived about a thousand years, or that they also universally had weird psychic powers that definitely had nothing to do with why every single species found them attractive.

Is everyone in this universe a fucking idiot?

"Blue's my favorite color," he said, with a slight but firm shake of his head, "Just… not on skin."

The Asari matron was a professional and he knew that even more as she ook the rejection with barely a pause, no offense showing on her expression even though he knew deep down, it had to sting at least a little. "Ah. I see. Personal preference or professional boundary?"

"I’m going to have to say both."

She stood with the same grace she'd arrived with, movements fluid and controlled. "Of course. I respect that completely. Professional focus is admirable."

"Thank you for the conversation, Mr. Victors. It's been genuinely enlightening."

"Enjoy your evening."

"I will." She paused, smile still warm despite the rejection.What’s your angle, blue lady? This wasn’t the first time someone had sent a pretty face to get in his pants, but it was the first time they had tried an Asari. You’d think they’d at least know what I liked first.She folded her hands together in front of her midsection. "And I do hope you'll reconsider my invitation to discuss business sometime. Strictly professional, naturally."

She walked off before he could respond, hips swaying like punctuation in a way that if it wasn’t deliberate, he’d call bullshit.She was doing it for his benefit, or to show his loss.

Zedd didn’t bother to watch past the first glance but he had to give the Asari her props. Points for persistence. Or professionalism.

Hard to tell the difference anymore.

Before he could think of something that properly captured how he felt about the whole interaction, his omni-tool vibrated against his wrist. Priority alert, the kind that meant something was going to be a brand new annoyance in his day.

Zedd glanced down at the notification. Traffic patterns near one of his remote monitoring stations, levels exceeding baseline by significant margins. Too coordinated for random... fuck.

The alcohol was already clearing his system, Thessian Indigo getting processed faster than human physiology could hope to handle. In a few minutes, he finished the last of his shrimp, left a substantial tip for Sara, caught Marcus's eye with a brief nod, and headed for the exit.

Outside, Providence's skyline lit against the darkness like a circuit board sprawled across the horizon.He bit back a sigh as he tilted his head skywards. “Guess we’re going on a trip.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

5k Words (100 FP)FAIL: Engineer | Erudition (800 FP) Halo - UNSC Knowledge Future Tech

Forge Points: 600