Massive Disaster II
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The omni-tool's interface blazed to life under Zedd's fingers, menus cascading in familiar patterns that his mind processed with an ease he did his best to ignore.
Each swipe and gesture felt natural, muscle memory from years he couldn't quite remember, yet his thoughts cataloged every detail with rapid-fire precision. Interface layout matches Earth standard circa 2175 — three years old which meant half-obsolete already — security protocols pure vanilla, no heavy encryption. The observation slid in unbidden, his mind already three steps ahead even as another part of him screamed that none of this made sense.
Everything felt natural until it didn't, his brain processing functions and features that somehow made perfect sense.
He scrolled through submenus, each command familiar yet foreign—annoying on two different fucking layers, to be honest. Extranet authorization protocols, overlay settings, power distribution metrics. The terms flowed through his mind like water, leaving him both impressed and disturbed by his own knowledge.
"This is some straight sci-fi bullshit," he muttered, watching status indicators flicker across the holographic display, only to pause as his head tilted to the side as an open tab flickered from his extranet browser. Is that woman blue? With head tentacles? Was Star Wars right? He blinked in silence, flicking the tab away but not closing it. Questions for later.
Another part of him - the part that felt oldest, most real - kept insisting he should be checking Instagram or Snapchat instead. The cognitive dissonance made him snort. "Right, because social media is totally what I should be worried about right now."
Brown eyes narrowed, catching his reflection in the glossy screen – young face, calculated calm, hint of a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. Something hit like a migraine, brief but sharp. He knew at least half the submenus, every other function, and a good many of the shortcut sof the tech wrapped around his wrist, and yet...
"When the hell did I learn any of this?" The words slipped out in a whisper, his lip curving into something between amusement and frustration. The question hung in the recycled air of his cabin, unanswered and oddly hollow.
Half his thoughts felt odd like that, disjointed and just off. It was almost bad enough to make him wonder if he’d caved in and done Echo or something.
He paused, blinking for a moment, only for a snort to slip free of his lips as he kept moving forward. Yeah, fucking right. Like I’d ever snort that shit. The odds of that even being on a colony ship were just…
He shook his head. Well, whoever was smuggling it would have to be real fuckin’ brave to risk twenty years in an UNAS prison once they got shipped back to Earth.
His boots whispered against the deck plating as he moved through the narrow corridors, each step precise despite the ship's subtle vibration humming through the soles. The sound disappeared into the background drone of life support and mass effect fields, white noise that his brain filed away while simultaneously tracking entry points, camera positions, and structural weak spots.
Old habits from a life he couldn't remember living.
The ship's layout unfolded around him like a tactical overlay – smooth blue-gray walls curved inward like ribs, soft white light strips tracing floor and ceiling in patterns too regular to be aesthetic choices. Emergency routing indicators, his mind supplied. Guide lines for evac scenarios. Smart design, minus the bottleneck at Junction 4-A. He caught himself mentally marking alternate routes, escape paths, defensive positions.
Another habit he couldn't explain.
A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips as he passed a pair of maintenance bots. "Place almost feels like a cruise ship instead of a colony transport." The observation carried an edge of derision that surprised even him. "Like someone's trying way too hard to make us forget we're basically cargo."
He remembered these halls – theoretically. Enough to navigate, enough to not feel lost. But seeing them now, really seeing them, everything felt wrong.
Smaller. Cramped.
Like the walls were closing in just to spite him. His fingers twitched, itching for a weapon he'd never carried.
Or had he?
"Getting real tired of this 'whose life is it anyway' crap," he muttered, earning a strange look from a passing family. He flashed them his best 'harmless teenager' smile, the expression practiced enough to be convincing. The mother hurried her kids along anyway, unconsciously putting herself between them and him.
Smart lady, he thought, smile never wavering. Good survival instincts. The observation came with a cold certainty that should have bothered him more than it did.
The cognitive dissonance was back, stronger this time. Images flickered through his mind: high school halls in 2014, beaten-up locker with a broken lock; colony corridors in 2178, makeshift barricades during a raider hit.
Both felt real.
Both felt false.
His brain tried to reconcile them, ADHD-driven thoughts spinning through possibilities at dizzying speed while maintaining perfect situational awareness of his surroundings.
Everything about the ship felt like a carefully constructed lie.
The clean lines, the soft lighting, the way every surface tried so hard to feel welcoming - it was all just makeup on a corpse. Under the pretty facade, this was still just a tin can hurtling through space, packed with people desperate enough to bet their lives on a fresh start. Getting philosophical in my old age, he thought with a snort. What am I, like seventeen going on thirty-four? The joke felt forced, even to him, but it was better than dwelling on the weird double-vision in his head: memories of school drama mixing with flashes of street life on Earth, neither quite feeling real anymore.
A maintenance bot whirred past, its programming making it dodge around passengers with almost comical precision. Mark-4 service unit. The knowledge popped into his head uninvited, and he shoved the thoughts aside with a grimace. "Really need to stop doing that."
People moved through the corridors in loose clusters, some standing aside, others passing by.
Not many, but enough to make the space feel alive.
And annoying.
His shoulders tensed involuntarily as he stepped around a middle-aged man fumbling with his own omni-tool, the soft glow of its blue interface painting the guy’s face with distracted concentration. Really? Latest consumer model, probably paid triple market rate. More money than sense. Zedd's lip twitched upward, halfway to a sneer. Even left the interface factory standard. Cute.
He shook the thought away, keeping his pace steady even as his mind raced. The constant stream of observations felt natural, tactical assessment mixing with sardonic commentary in a way that should have been exhausting. Instead, it was like breathing. Categorize. Analyze. File away for later.
The process was automatic, requiring no real effort despite the sheer volume of data.
The crowds grated on him in a way that felt both familiar and foreign. Their presence set his teeth on edge – too many variables, too much movement, too many potential threats masquerading as ordinary passengers.
Not that they were threats, really.
His eyes flicked over each face, each gesture, each subtle tell. Accountant, probably Earth-based. Marriage falling apart, compensating with tech purchases. Two kids, both in college. Trying to start over but bringing all his baggage along for the ride.
The analysis came without effort, patterns emerging from a thousand tiny details his brain processed without conscious thought. It should have been overwhelming. Instead, it was almost boring.
Like reading a children's book when you're expecting Shakespeare.
A young couple passed by, hands linked, matching excited grins as they discussed their future prospects. Zedd's lip curled slightly. Skyhand babies playing pioneer. She'll last three months before calling daddy to bail her out. He'll stick it out of spite, end up managing some mining operation because failure's not in his vocabulary. The assessment was cold, clinical, tinged with an amusement that didn't quite mask the underlying disdain.
His reflection caught his eye in a darkened viewport – brown eyes sharp with calculation, posture deliberately casual but ready to move, the hint of a smirk that looked practiced even to him. For a moment, the image seemed to flicker, overlaying with another version of himself.
Chubbier.
Softer.
Less... whatever he was now.
2014, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You were in high school. This isn't—
"Real?" he murmured, watching his reflection's smirk widen. "Sure feels real enough."
The cognitive dissonance was becoming a familiar companion, less migraine and more persistent itch. His memories felt like puzzle pieces from different boxes – each one clear enough on its own but refusing to fit together properly. Earth teenager in 2014, streetkid in 2178. Both true, both false, both competing for space in a mind that seemed perfectly capable of handling the contradiction.
His fingers brushed against the omni-tool again, the interface responding with instant, familiar warmth. The sensation triggered another cascade of memories: homework assignments on tablet computers, camera data streaming through an omni-tool connected visor set.
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"Getting real tired of this identity crisis bullshit," he muttered, earning a strange look from a passing passenger. Zedd flashed them a smile, with just enough charm to be disarming. The elderly woman smiled back automatically, already forgetting him as she moved past.
Like I'm not even here, he thought, the observation carrying a weight. Just another kid in the crowd. Nothing to see.
His pace quickened slightly as he approached the mess hall, the corridor widening and the lighting shifting to something warmer, more inviting. The change was subtle but effective - everything about this place designed to make you lower your guard, feel at home. Like putting a bow on a cage. The thought came with a hint of amusement, even as another part of him wondered why he was so quick to see the angle in everything.
The faint scent of food hit next, just strong enough to tease but not overpower. Vatbeef, his mind supplied automatically. His stomach gave a faint grumble in response. He ignored it, mostly out of habit.
The hum of voices grew louder as he neared the doors, conversations overlapping in a steady rhythm that somehow managed not to be completely grating. A few credsacks huddled around their premium meal packs, trying to pretend they weren't slumming it with the rest of them. No skyhands though - actual spacers knew better than to waste creds on this route.
The doors slid open with a faint hiss, revealing a dining area that seemed almost too polished for a colony ship. His eyes swept the space, taking in the modular seating bolted down in geometric patterns. Real try-hard stuff, like someone had raided a luxury liner's clearance sale.
Overhead, soft panels diffused light across the mess hall, bathing everything in a glow that walked the line between "stay awake" and "feel at home." His gaze drifted to the massive "windows" lining the far wall—screens, obviously. The views of distant planets and drifting starfields were just projections. Classic grub bait, designed to keep the colonists distracted from the fact they were basically cargo.
He blinked, tray balanced carefully in his hands as he shuffled forward in line. Learned that in bridge...
He blinked again, single eye twitching involuntarily. Shit. His shoulders stiffened slightly, a faint wince flickering across his face as another stray memory buzzed to the surface. middle school?
The contradiction tugged at his thoughts, pulling both sets of terms into sharp focus: elementary, middle, and high school on one side; foundation, bridge, and intermediate core on the other.
It was like seeing two roads intersect at odd angles. his brain fumbled for a moment before it quickly slotted the pieces together, smoothing the contradiction over like it had always made sense.
not sure i love how easily that happens, he thought, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might’ve been a half-smile. Feel like a glitching VI.
His eyes narrowed again as he moved through the line, filling his tray with options that looked almost appetizing, considering where they came from. What’s a VI?
The teenager shook his head and glanced down at his plate as he sat down. Vatbeef steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, broccoli. Good eats, by reconstituted synth-food standards, which wasn't saying much.
The space around him buzzed with activity—families clustered around their tables, kids picking at their food while parents murmured in low, tired tones. Younger passengers leaned toward each other, talking and laughing just loud enough to draw attention without being obnoxious. Dusters and grubs mixing together like oil and water, neither quite fitting with the other.
His fingers curled around the plastic utensils, the cheap material already threatening to bend under his grip. The food smelled... decent. It wasn't real—at least, not in the sense of actual meat or vegetables—but it was familiar in a way that made his skin crawl.
Something twisted in his chest, a faint pang that felt like homesickness for a place he'd never been.
Or had he?
The memories were there, just out of reach: late nights on the streets, cheap takeout and cheaper dreams. But that wasn't right either—he was supposed to be somewhere else, somewhen else.
2014. His grip tightened on the fork as fragments of another life tried to surface. High school, college applications, normal teenage stuff that felt like fiction compared to...compared to what?
The headache was instant, sharp enough to make him wince. His vision blurred at the edges as his brain tried to reconcile two sets of memories, neither quite fitting right. Streets of Baltimore 2178 overlapped with suburban Maryland 2014, both equally vivid, equally false.
His jaw tightened, his brow furrowing as the fragments of memory clawed their way to the surface.
Memories—fragmented, sure, but memories still—of his real life. The life that was his. The life he knew wasn’t here. His chest fell slowly as breathing steadied, headache fading into a dull ache. My name is...
His mind reached for the word instinctively, the answer not even in reach. At least I know it’s not Slim Shady.
He frowned for a moment, the lines on his face deepening as he shifted his focus back to the food in front of him. Why do I remember Eminem, of all people? Zedd narrowed his eyes in confusion. Was the Marshall Mathers LP that important?
After a second, he clicked his tongue. What am I saying? Of course it was.
Movement caught his eye—a shuffle of boots, the scrape of a chair. His posture shifted automatically, straightening without being obvious about it. A smile eased across his face, the expression practiced enough to look natural.
"Can I help you with something?" The words came out smooth, walking the line between polite and dismissive. His eyes traced the sharp angles of her face, framed by that shock of blue hair that couldn't quite hide the blonde at her roots. Everything about her screamed colony kid trying to stand out - from the carefully maintained bravado to the way she carried herself, like someone used to making every movement count.
The girl leaned forward, her movements fluid but ready, the kind that felt natural without trying too hard. Her wrist caught his attention - chunky black omnitool band, scuffed matte plastic and clearly only a year or two out from being junk, glittering charms swinging lightly as she propped her chin on her hand. Definitely all she had, but she wore it like she didn't care.
"Dunno," she drawled, colony accent thick enough to cut glass. Her smirk had an edge that matched the glint in her eyes. "You always look this lost in thought, or am I just special?"
On either side of her, two more settled into their seats.
To her right, a built Indian guy who screamed gym rat, his broad shoulders filling out a plain black muscle shirt that had never seen a day of real work. Arms crossed, expression trying too hard to look casual. To her left, a pale girl with steady hands and watchful eyes, the kind that had seen enough trouble to know how to avoid it but not enough to be hardened by it.
Zedd's attention slid back to Blue-Hair as the girl his age tilted her head, her smirk growing sharper. "Name's Kira Varne," she said, each word carrying that same unpolished edge that made her confidence more compelling than it should have been. "You know it's rude not to introduce yourself, right?"
The way she said it carried weight - like she was used to her name meaning something. Colony accent thick as honey but sharp as glass, wrapping around each word like she was daring him to comment. Not showing off, exactly, but definitely performing.
Wonder if that's for my benefit or theirs, he mused, watching the boy puff up slightly at her confidence. Definitely got the muscle wrapped around her finger. The observation came with an odd mix of admiration and amusement.
2014 him would have been impressed. 2178 him just found it cute.
His thoughts spun through possibilities even as his expression stayed carefully neutral. Social dynamics clicked into place like pieces of a puzzle: the guy playing muscle, the other girl providing credibility, Kira running point.
A crew.
Their dynamic felt familiar, triggering memories that slipped away before he could fully grab them. School friends overlapped with street gangs, neither quite fitting but both feeling like they made sense either way. Really is getting annoying.
He let the silence stretch just long enough to be noticeable, his own smirk flickering to life. "I mean, you'd know what rude is, right?" His gaze drifted deliberately to her wristband again. "Not everyone just invites themselves to a stranger's table."
Her smirk faltered for half a second before returning stronger. "Rude, sure, yeah. Anyway, word on the ship is you're by yourself. No parents, no family..." She leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial. "Not many of us like that on here."
"Oh?" Zedd's eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the trio again, details clicking into place. The contrast was obvious now that he was looking for it. Dev's perfect fade haircut and carefully maintained physique screamed Earth gym culture - probably Neo-Mumbai upper middle class, based on the accent and the way he carried himself. No colony kid would waste time on that level of aesthetic maintenance.
The quiet one - Adele - gave it away even more. Her hands told the story: clean, steady, no calluses from hauling cargo or working machinery. A thin silver chain peeked out from her collar, understated but quality. The kind of thing that would've been traded for ration credits in any colony he could think of.
"You're both from Earth," he said, tone casual as he gestured between Dev and Adele with his fork. "Colony ship's a bit of a step down, isn't it?"
Dev's cocky grin faltered slightly. "Yeah? What gave it away, bro?" His Neo-Mumbai accent thickened defensively.
"Everything," Zedd replied, smirking. "The hair, for one. I’m betting no shitty nowhere colony barber's that good, especially if you’re going to Arkadia IV." He nodded toward Adele. "And you've got Earth medical written all over you. Too..." he paused, searching for the right word, "polished."
Kira snorted, clearly amused by her companions' discomfort. "Told you he'd spot it," she drawled, those blue eyes sparking with something like approval. "Can't hide Earth shine out here."
"Listen," Adele spoke for the first time, her voice carrying that distinct Québécois lilt, "not everyone fits your neat little boxes, eh?"
"Sure, sure," Zedd leaned back, studying them with open amusement now. "But you're not exactly trying to blend in either. Neo-Mumbai gym rat and Quebec med student slumming it with a colony kid? That's not exactly subtle."
"Man's got a mouth on him," Dev muttered, but there was grudging respect in his tone. He flexed unconsciously, a habit that probably impressed back home. "What's your deal then, smart guy? You're not exactly colony material yourself."
Kira clicked her tongue, that sharp colony sound cutting through the tension. "Easy there, muscle boy," she said, but her eyes never left Zedd's face. "Think our richie here's got his own story."
"Richie?" Zedd echoed, raising an eyebrow. That wasn’t true, not really. Not in the way that mattered. "That's cute. You always this quick to label people, or am I special?"
"Dunno yet," she fired back, matching his smirk. "Might've thought you were worth checking out. Starting to wonder though."
The challenge in her voice was clear, wrapped in that colony drawl that somehow made it more effective. Part dare, part dismissal, all carefully calculated to provoke a response. He had to admire the technique, even if he could see right through it.
"Right," he said, picking up his fork again. "Because three random passengers just happen to sit down with the solo guy for friendly chat. No angle there at all."
"You sure about that?" Dev leaned forward, trying to loom despite sitting down. "Looking pretty sus yourself, bro."
Zedd snorted. "Nice technique. Deflect much?"
He set his fork down, meeting Kira's increasingly hostile stare. "Here's what I figure - you two," he nodded at Dev and Adele, "are actually paying passengers. Probably running from something back on Earth, but hey, who isn't?"
His focus shifted back to Kira. "But you? You're working an angle."
"Everyone's working an angle," Kira replied, voice low and dangerous. "Even richies like you."
"True," Zedd conceded, still smiling. "But my angle isn't going to get these two shipped back when security figures out how you actually got on board."
"You know what?" Kira said, her smirk shifting into something more genuine as she leaned back. "Was thinking about it, thought you were cute or somethin'. Didn't know you were a brain."
Zedd blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. His rapid-fire thoughts stumbled for half a second before his expression settled back into faint amusement. "You think I'm cute?"
She rolled her eyes, the motion exaggerated but carrying an undeniable charm. "I said I think I thought so. Might've been thinkin' something else. Who knows?"
For a moment, he just stared at her, his brow furrowing slightly in mock confusion. Something about her response felt real - more real than the rest of their exchange had been. His usual instinct to push further, to find the angle, felt... unnecessary.
His smirk returned, sharp and deliberate. "Zedd Victors," he said, his tone easy. "My fault. Didn't mean to be rude."
Her smirk mirrored his, head tilting slightly. "You'd know what rude is, wouldn't you?"
The teenager blinked, brown eyes going dull for a moment as he felt a pull at the back of his thoughts. The fuck? He blinked again a half-second later, before smirking wider at Kira. “Nah, I’m pretty polite.”
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