It was amazing how much rage could be pent up in such a tiny body.
Well… maybe amazing wasn’t exactly the right word.
“Who. The. Fuck. is Kira?”
Annoying… that’s what he was looking for.
“Nina…” a hard glare remained focused his way, forcing another sigh from his mouth, a sigh that the only other person in his living room didn’t appreciate as said glare somehow doubled in the heat and force coming his way, “Like I told you three times already, she’s just a friend.”
Like not in the way we are, he didn’t say, because he wasn’t fucking stupid. Still, he never expected her to be this up in arms. Nothing about them had seemed… serious. They had never talked about it.
Really, there’d been very little talking at all the last month.
Very little sleeping too.
“Friends?” The small woman scoffed at the word. “What friends? You don’t talk to fucking anyone. Ever! You don’t even bother remembering people’s names! If I didn't fucking ask you out, you wouldn't know who the fuck I was?" She threw her hands up in the air with a frustrated sound, curly hair bouncing with the motion. “All you do is read, work and smirk. You’re a working smirker. That’s all you do. You’re a working smirker!”
Zedd stared at her blankly for a few seconds, rolling the words around in his head, unsure how to respond to that exactly. “...That’s a terrible insult.”
“...alright.” She nodded, a very-not-amused smile crossing her face. “I’m done.”
“Nina,” her name escaped his lips with a sigh.
“No, I’m done with you,” she continued, walking over to the door, still clad in his t-shirt, the thing reaching nearly to her knees.
“Nina…”
She shook her head and let out a negative-sounding noise, something not too far away from an error sound. “I’m done with you and your bullshit and your lies,” she continued, crossing her arms over her chest in an X. The action made him remember that her bra was still probably under his pillow.
“Over what, a name?” His voice stayed flat, the exhaustion outweighing the confusion.
She didn’t respond, already walking away.
“Nina…” he walked up to her as she swung open the door, her name on his lips again like the colony’s most exhausted-sounding parrot.
“What?!” She whirled on him with teeth bared.
“...” The seventeen-year old stared at his… his… his whatever-she-was and held back another sigh as he looked her in the eyes. “I’m gonna give you a day to calm down. Then I want to talk about this again.”
Something like a growl escaped her gritted teeth as she pointed a finger in his face. “Never speak to me again, you fucking dick.”
He stared flatly at her. “...Are you sure about that?”
The door slammed in his face, and Zedd blinked with nothing else to say.
Or at least no one to say it to.
“...cool.” Zedd rubbed his neck, already over it. Or trying to be.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Five months into his time on New Abraham, Zedd's life had shifted from quiet, grudging work to a rhythm so tight it felt engineered.
Dawns hit early—alarm chiming just loud enough to get under his skin—while nights stretched past their limit, ending when his vision blurred and the light from his omni-tool burned. The prefab wasn't just a home anymore. It had turned into a nerve center for his work, humming with activity, alive in ways the sterile walls weren't. Tools sprawled across the main room like discarded puzzle pieces, cables coiled in corners, holoscreens layered with diagnostics hovering mid-air.
The new addition? A twelve-square-meter garage bolted onto the side
Fifteen thousand credits, half his profit for the month. He'd winced when the payment cleared, his omni-tool pinging with an annoyingly cheerful tone.
For a second, he'd almost canceled it.
Now? It felt like the smartest thing he'd done since landing.
The garage had its own vibe—utilitarian but still his. Shelves lined with parts and scavenged components covered one wall, organized in a way only he understood. A counter ran along the other side, clean enough to look professional but rough enough to say, yeah, this is mine.
Zedd crouched over a mining laser that morning, its guts spilled across his workbench in a tangled mess of melted connections and scorched capacitors. The thing was a disaster, but he didn't mind. New Abraham’s tech ecosystem was a joke—like someone had slapped together half a supply chain and called it a day. The northern district of New Abraham had a few corporate-backed repair stations, but they charged at least triple his rate for half the skill and five times the wait, and the militia’s maintenance division was booked six weeks out.
That left guys like him to pick up the slack. Frontier life meant everything broke—omnitools, mining drills, even colony air filters. The only difference between a thriving business and a bankrupt one was how many people knew your name. "Amateurs," he muttered, leaning closer as he soldered a new capacitor into place.
A knock at the garage door pulled his focus. He sighed, setting the soldering iron aside as the smell of burnt circuits lingered in the air. "It's open!"
The door hissed open, revealing a middle-aged man clutching a battered datapad, its screen flickering like it was on life support. "Heard you're the guy to see for this kinda thing," the man said, his voice gruff but lined with expectation.
Zedd gestured toward the counter. "Drop it there. I'll take a look."
The datapad hit the counter with a dull thud as the man stepped back, arms folding over his chest.
Zedd ignored him.
People occasionally just stood and watched, like their staring somehow fixed the problem faster.
========================
Zedd hunched over his workbench, shoulders stiff from hours bent at the same angle. In his hand, a fractured drone emitter glinted faintly under the light. Its circuits were a spiderweb of damage, cracks running deep enough to make the whole thing feel pointless.
"Seen better days," he muttered, tilting it toward the glow of his holoscreen.
Across the counter, the client—a woman leaning with one arm propped—raised an eyebrow. Her shorts were aggressively short, her attitude sharper. "Can you fix it?"
Zedd smirked faintly, his confidence an afterthought. "Fix it? Nah. I can make it better."
Her eyebrow went higher, a challenge flickering in her expression. "I'd like to see that."
He didn't bother answering, already turning back to the workbench. It was amazing how bad people could really fuck up simple electronics half the time. Half the time, he wished he could just slap on some omnigel and call it a day. Then I wouldn't have a job, I guess.
An hour later, the space looked like it had gone to war. Drone parts sprawled across the table, servo motors clicking softly as he tested configurations. Salvaged alloys from an old mining exosuit he'd bought for scrap clattered into place, lighter and stronger than the original frame. The hum of his omni-tool filled the air as diagnostics ran, his focus so tight it drowned everything else out.
"C'mon," he muttered, adjusting the wiring on a modular joint. The drone's emitter sputtered, whirred, then sprang to life. It hovered above the bench, movements smooth and deliberate.
Zedd leaned back, wiping his hands on a rag. The grin tugging at his face felt earned.
Across the counter, the woman's bored mask cracked, her lips twitching up. "Better than I expected," she said.
Zedd shrugged, casual as ever. "You're welcome."
========================
Five minutes after the miner slammed the dust-caked kinetic drill onto the counter, the thing had already pissed Zedd off. Not because it was broken—that was expected—but because of the mess. His fingers ran over the vents, grit flaking off like dandruff. The casing felt warm, too, like the drill was trying to cook itself to death.
Great.
"Locks up every ten minutes," the miner growled.
Zedd popped the casing, grit flaking onto the counter. Inside, the cooling array looked like a rat’s nest, the regulator a mess too. "Jesus. No wonder it's dying."
"Can you fix it?"
"Yeah," Zedd said. "But I charge extra for tech abuse."
The miner's snort carried just enough disbelief to keep things from getting tense, but he stayed silent as Zedd set to work.
Two hours later, the drill looked almost presentable. Fresh parts, cleaned vents, even a slight upgrade to the cooling system. The thing purred in his hands, steady and even like it had never overheated in its life.
Zedd wiped the sweat off his brow, ignoring the smudge it left on his sleeve, and stepped outside. The sun was still hanging low over the horizon, the air buzzing faintly with the hum of far-off machinery.
"Here," he called, holding the drill out like a trophy.
The miner took it, his calloused fingers brushing against Zedd's for a split second before pulling away. Without a word, he turned toward a nearby slab of rock, flicked the switch, and let the drill roar.
The sound was sharp, piercing the quiet like a blade, but it didn't stutter once. Shards of rock flew as the drill tore through the surface, the blue glow of its diagnostics shining steady.
The miner nodded, so subtle Zedd almost missed it.
"Next time, don't let it turn into a glorified paperweight," Zedd said, wiping his hands on a rag that was already filthy.
The man grunted, something halfway between a thanks and a goodbye, before trudging off.
========================
A few hours later, a courier drone zipped in through the open door with zero patience. It dropped a package on the counter and quickly buzzed away, the thing sounding like it needed a tune-up as well.
Zedd frowned at the shield generator inside, its faded casing covered in scratches and dents. A small datapad taped to the side read, "Need stronger output. Be there tomorrow evening for pickup. -TL."
"TL, huh?" Zedd muttered, pulling the thing closer. It looked basic—definitely something for civvies, and not anything close to military or combat-rated.
Prying it open, he traced the circuitry with his eyes, his brain already mapping the upgrades. The power distribution nodes were weak, fried in places. The capacitors? Barely hanging on.
The generator was limping at best. "Oh, you've got problems."
He didn't even bother cursing. Just grabbed his tools and started fixing.
========================
It took hours.
New circuits, soldering joints that sparked a little too close to his fingers, swapping out the power nodes entirely. The hum of his omni-tool filled the air, steady and constant as the generator's casing began to glow faintly under his desk lamp.
"Come on," he muttered, leaning in close as he adjusted the wiring.
The generator pulsed once, a faint blue flicker that settled into a steady rhythm. The energy field flared to life, brighter and more stable than before, lighting up the dim garage like a miniature sun.
Zedd leaned back, his chair creaking as he stretched. His fingers ached, his sleeves were ruined, and his stomach growled in protest, but the field held steady.
"Next," he muttered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
========================
With the garage empty, Zedd turned his attention to something that actually mattered. The goggles on his workbench sat like a dare, their casing scuffed and patched from weeks of trial and error.
He slid them over his eyes, the faint hum of power vibrating against his temples. The lenses flickered, the faint blue hud coming to life in the corner of his vision.
Rough.
Unfinished.
But functional.
Zedd twisted the haptic controls on the side, tweaking the settings until the interface synced with his omni-tool. The data overlays were crude, the diagnostics lagging by half a second, but they worked. Not the best on the market, but… he nodded to himself, we'll get there.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
This was his day now—customers rolling in with busted tech, each one clutching their little disasters and half-baked explanations like they weren't the ones who probably wrecked it to begin with. A sluggish omnitool here, a fried drone motor there, even a half-dead auto-loader drone someone dragged over looking like it lost a fight with a rockslide. Zedd handled it all. Every job was another set of clues, and by the time the sun slipped past the horizon, his credit balance was better off than it had been in the morning.
But the money wasn't everything. It was the puzzle of it. The challenge of turning scraps into something functional, of making the things everyone else gave up on work like new. Not that he'd admit it—it wasn't about pride or anything soft like that. It just felt... right.
His smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he tightened the final connection on the mining laser. Last one for the day, probably.
Then he heard the laugh—Kira's sharp, unmistakable—and the sound of Dev's voice booming loud enough to make the tools on the bench rattle.
"Yo, Zedd! You home?"
Zedd rolled his eyes, not bothering to look up as the trio barged in like they owned the place.
"Nah," he muttered under his breath, already bracing for the chaos. Kira was first through the door, her blue hair catching the garage lights as her smirk widened.
"Well, well," she said, dragging out the words like she was tasting them, arms folding over her navy shirt. Muscle tone was starting to show on her arms—probably from all the military drills.
Zedd didn't even glance up. "Real original, Kira. Eighty square meters, not a mansion."
He could practically feel her rolling her eyes. "Better than the dumps they got us in."
"Course it's better," he shot back, finally glancing at her. "It ain't the barracks. Anyway, what're you guys doing here? Shouldn't you be busy pretending to be soldiers or something?"
Dev clapped him on the back, and Zedd barely caught the mining laser before it slipped out of his hands.
"Hey, don't knock it, man. We're learning valuable life skills. Like how to run laps till you puke," Dev said, grinning like the idea didn't make him want to die.
Adele leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the back-and-forth with that quiet amusement she always had. "And don't forget scrubbing floors till they shine. Critical military prep."
"Sounds like a blast," Zedd deadpanned, finally setting the laser down and turning to face them. "So, what? You here to remind me why I don't miss working with people?"
"Nah," Dev said, dropping onto a stool like he belonged there, twirling a wrench between his fingers. "We're here to see this empire you're building. Said it before, and I'll say it again: I'm impressed. You've got a whole operation going."
Zedd shrugged, trying to downplay the flicker of pride that crept up uninvited. "It pays the bills. Unlike whatever you guys are calling work these days."
"Don't get too comfortable, Victors," Kira cut in, her smirk sharp as she glanced around the room. "We might recruit you when we're done with training. A brain like yours? Could be useful."
"Hard pass," Zedd shot back immediately, earning a laugh from Dev.
Dev leaned forward, grinning wide enough to be obnoxious. "By the way, Z, forgot to thank you for saving my bacon with Rourke last week."
Zedd froze for a second, his mouth twitching before it settled into a flat line.
"...Yep."
-------------------------------
6 Days Ago
The garage thrummed with a faint undercurrent of machinery noise, broken occasionally by the metallic scrape of tools against the workbench. Zedd hunched over his project, fingers deftly peeling back the casing on a worn-out Omnitool. The mess on his L-shaped desk—wires coiled like snakes, terminals blinking at uneven intervals, scattered schematics—might’ve looked chaotic to anyone else, but it was all muscle memory to him.
He almost missed the footsteps, faint against the background hum, but the sharp edge of Dev’s voice snapped his focus.
“Yo, Zedd! You got a second?”
Zedd’s head jerked up, vision swimming for half a second. Weird… like everything had shifted just slightly off-center. Shaking it off, he blinked and looked toward the door.
Dev stood there, his frame filling the doorway like he owned the place. The armor he wore was scuffed, the dull gray plates lined with streaks of dirt and the faint shine of overuse. The dark blue trim around the edges wasn’t doing it any favors, nearly lost against the grime, but the eagle insignia on the shoulder stood out clear enough: militia gear. Cheap and functional. Probably good enough to stop small rounds or maybe a glancing blade. Not much more than that.
Zedd’s eyes dragged over the full-face visor, scratched to hell and retracting with a soft hiss as Dev flipped it back. That cocky grin split across his face like always—confidence radiating, even when there was nothing to back it up.
But it wasn’t just Dev. Someone followed him in, footsteps heavier, steadier. The kind of measured pace that made Zedd’s instincts twinge.
The guy was older, mid-forties maybe, with armor that said “Commanding Officer” before he even opened his mouth. The plating was reinforced, polished enough to reflect the dim light, with gold accents catching just enough attention without looking gaudy. His helmet stayed on, the visor glowing faintly from what had to be an advanced HUD. The way the bulkier frame moved with him made it clear—this wasn’t for show.
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Zedd’s gaze lingered, taking in the man’s posture. Shoulders squared, every step deliberate, his head turning just enough to survey the garage without making it obvious.
Former Alliance, Zedd thought, the idea slotting into place like it had been waiting for him. Had to be.
The man’s focus settled on Zedd finally, eyes behind the visor tracking him with a practiced precision.
“Good afternoon,” he said, his tone clipped, deliberate, almost mechanical. “Lieutenant Carter Rourke, New Abraham Militia and Security Corps.”
Zedd straightened slightly, dragging a rag across his hands as his eyes flicked back to Dev. The dude was nervous. Dev wasn’t supposed to look nervous.
Rourke wasn’t waiting for a response.
“Private First Class Devraj Shankar spoke on some matters I overheard,” he continued, the rank spat out with a faint edge, “He managed to mention your… work.” The pause before “work” was deliberate, almost like he didn’t want to say it. “He seems to think you’re something of a savant… when it comes to the repair and modification of technology.”
Zedd’s tongue met his teeth in that familiar click, the teenager leaning back as Rourke spoke with the sort of dismissiveness in his tone that many of his customers had when they finally saw him in person. “Guess that’s one way to put it,” he said, his voice light as his eyes dropped to Rourke’s Omnitool.
The faint blue flicker of the interface caught his attention immediately. Civ-grade. Armax logo. Zedd’s grin sharpened as recognition clicked into place.
“Wait a second,” he said, pointing, the grin widening. “Is that an Armax?”
Dev flinched, the motion barely noticeable, but his shoulders tightened like he’d just been called out.
“It is,” Rourke said flatly, his tone steady as stone.
Zedd tilted his head, the grin slipping into something closer to a smirk. “Lemme guess. You saw the name Armax and thought, ‘Top-tier combat tech,’ right?” He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Yeah, no. Armax makes killer guns, sure, but their Omnitools? They’ve got, what, one civ-grade model? And it’s…” He trailed off, pulling a face.
“Subpar,” Rourke finished, his voice dry, the kind of dry that told Zedd this wasn’t the first time he’d heard it.
“Yeah. Subpar,” Zedd echoed, his fingers drumming idly against the workbench.
Rourke’s gaze didn’t waver. “The question is, can you make it better?”
Zedd leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the bench as the smirk returned full force.
“Better? Nah,” he said, his tone dripping with confidence. “I can make it stupid good. Question is, how much you looking to throw down?”
Zedd leaned back, his eyebrows shooting up as Rourke’s words registered. “Ten thousand credits,” the lieutenant had said, like it wasn’t the kind of number that could make someone double-take.
He let out a low whistle, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “Damn. Big spender.”
Dev, standing just behind Rourke, didn’t handle it as cool. “Bro,” he hissed, his voice somewhere between panic and disbelief, “what the hell—”
Rourke silenced him with a sharp look, the kind that could make you regret opening your mouth.
“Half now,” the lieutenant said, his Omnitool lighting up as he flicked through commands, “half on completion.”
Zedd’s Omnitool pinged softly, the notification confirming the transfer. He grinned, leaning forward to extend his hand, his grip firm but casual. “Deal.”
Rourke unclasped his Omnitool with the same precision he seemed to do everything else, passing it over without hesitation. “I expect results, Victors.”
Zedd turned the device in his hands, spinning it once like it was a prize he’d already won. “Results are my thing,” he said, his confidence bordering on cocky.
Without another word, Rourke turned on his heel and strode out of the garage. Dev lingered, rubbing the back of his neck, his expression a mix of disbelief and frustration.
“Zedd,” he started, his tone low but insistent, “do not screw this up. That’s my C.O., bro. If you mess this up, he’s gonna make my life a living hell.”
Zedd waved him off, barely looking up as he set the Omnitool down on his workbench. “Relax, man. Wouldn’t dream of it. Your guy’s about to have the best damn Omnitool in the colony.”
Dev muttered something under his breath—probably unflattering—but followed Rourke out without pushing it further.
Zedd stared at the Omnitool for a moment, the smirk on his face lingering as he turned it over in his hands again. “Stupid good,” he murmured, his mind already cataloging what it would take to make good on that promise.
========================
Six days later, the Omnitool was gone, handed off to Rourke with the kind of smirk Zedd didn’t entirely feel. But the image of it hadn’t left him yet, sharper in his head than he would’ve liked.
Sleek casing, reinforced with scavenged alloys to withstand more than the occasional bump. The polished surface caught the light just enough to look professional, almost intimidating. The rewired kinetic barrier enhancers—originally an Armax oversight—distributed power evenly, creating a field that could hold against small-arms fire. Maybe even a heavier hit, if Rourke was lucky.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Luck.
Zedd leaned back in his chair, his jaw tightening as he replayed the handoff in his head. Rourke’s grin had been genuine, like Zedd had handed him a Spectre-class upgrade instead of a patchwork prototype. The Omni-blade had flickered to life on command, its orange glow cutting clean through the dim light of the garage. The combat scanner, jury-rigged from salvaged mining gear, purred as it swept the area, flagging mock threats with smooth precision.
It had all worked.
Every feature had done exactly what it was supposed to do.
But all Zedd could see were the cracks and the seams.
The Medi-gel dispenser had been an afterthought, shoved into a system that wasn’t really designed to handle it. It worked, sure, but it was a roughshod edition at best. The integration slowed the response time—fine for a colony-level medbay, maybe, but not combat. And the encryption? Patched up enough to handle most local threats, but hardly anything that a half-trained Alliance N1 tech couldn’t crack in a firefight.
Citadel-grade? Not even close.
Zedd dragged a hand down his face, his eyes fixed on the empty spot on his workbench where the Omnitool had sat just days before. It wasn’t about trust—he trusted his work. But it wasn’t good enough. Not for the battlefield.
He could still hear his own voice during the handoff, walking Rourke through every feature with a smoothness that didn’t match the knots in his gut. He’d sold it, sure. But the weight of what he hadn’t fixed, hadn’t had time to perfect, sat heavy in the back of his mind.
“Stupid good,” he muttered under his breath, the words sour now. Good for the colony. Not for out there.
And yet, Rourke handed over a thousand-credit bonus like it was nothing, grinning like he’d just secured the deal of the year. The chime of the transfer had barely registered before the man was out the door, his strides deliberate and unapologetic, leaving Zedd staring at his own Omnitool.
A thousand credits.
His lips quirked, but the grin didn’t feel right. It never did. Not when he knew what he could’ve done if he’d had more time. Or better materials.
Or both.
Still, he shook his head, snapping himself out of it. “So,” he said, letting the word drag a little, “you guys just here to see me work?”
Kira didn’t even hesitate. “Nah, that’s bullshit. We’re taking you out.”
Zedd blinked, eyebrows rising as he tilted his head slightly. “Out?”
“Out,” Dev echoed, grinning like the idea was already settled.
Adele leaned in from where she’d been standing by the doorway, her arms crossed in that casual way she always did. “Come on, Z. When was the last time you actually took a break?”
Zedd opened his mouth to answer but came up short, realization dawning. Sleep didn’t count. Neither did the fifteen minutes here and there when he scarfed down rations between jobs.
Adele didn’t wait for a response. “Uh-huh, just like I thought. In my expert medical opinion, you need a night off.”
“Like going to a bar with us,” Kira added, her smirk sharp enough to cut.
Reflexively, Zedd shot back, “I don’t drink.”
The collective groans from the three of them were immediate and synchronized, like they’d been rehearsing it.
“What?” Zedd asked, glancing between them.
Dev leaned in, gesturing with exaggerated frustration. “Bro, you say this every time. You even made me waste that twelve-pack I brought over for you. To share, by the way.”
Adele didn’t miss a beat. “Waste? You drank all of it.”
Dev glanced at her, wide eyed and whiny. “Babe, don’t embarrass me.”
Zedd snorted. “I was there. She was there. Kira was the only one not there.”
“And I’m sad I missed it,” Kira said, her grin widening.
Zedd rolled his eyes, already turning back toward his workbench. “And I’m sad I can’t go out with you. There’s no way you’re getting me to go.”
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Somehow, they got him to go.
Granted, Zedd didn’t put up much of a fight, if he was being honest, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to grumble about it.
The four of them sat in Dev’s patrol car as the overmuscled guy parked it on a busy downtown street. Zedd stepped out after the others, glancing up at the bar they’d dragged him to.
Iron Sight.
His eyebrow arched as he read the glowing letters plastered above the entrance. “This the place?” he asked, closing the car door behind him.
Kira rolled her eyes, slapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble a step forward. “What do you think, genius?”
Zedd shot her a look but didn’t argue, instead trailing his gaze to Dev’s car.
The thing looked like someone’s idea of a military-grade brick on wheels. Squat, wide, and utilitarian, the vehicle’s reinforced panels gave it a rugged, industrial vibe. Dark gray with faint blue accents lining the edges, it wasn’t winning any style points, and the eagle emblem stamped on the doors looked more scuffed than official. Tactical lights ran along the frame, glowing faintly, more practical than decorative.
Zedd snorted, shaking his head as he followed the others toward the entrance. If they were putting Dev in a glorified brick like that, they definitely weren’t expecting high-speed chases anytime soon.
Inside, the bar was everything Zedd had expected and worse.
Iron Sight was loud. Not just loud, but packed and obnoxiously overdone. Sleek holo-screens cluttered the walls, each one blasting ads or highlights from some colony sports league he didn’t care about. The speakers thumped with bass-heavy music, competing with the noise of clinking glasses, half-shouted conversations, and bursts of laughter.
As they pushed deeper into the chaos, Zedd’s gaze swept over the crowd. Lots of muscle, lots of dark clothing that screamed practicality over style. The air inside carried the usual cocktail of sweat, cheap cologne, and synthetic whiskey fumes. The floor had that ever-present colony grit, kicked up from boots that spent too much time outside. A few screens flickered between recruitment ads and some local combat sport, while half the booths were occupied by heavy men with shaved heads leaning into their drinks like they were the only thing keeping them upright.
“Huh…” he muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he took it all in. Name’s starting to make sense now.
“C’mon, Z!” Dev’s voice cut through the bar’s chaos, his frame weaving effortlessly through the crowd. Zedd followed, hands stuffed into his pockets, dodging a server who almost clipped him with a tray of frothing glasses. The place smelled like sweat, fried food, and desperation. By the time they hit the booth in the back, the noise was a full-on assault, pressing in from every direction.
Kira slid in first, throwing herself across the seat like she owned it. Her blue hair caught the pulsing lights overhead, flashing neon streaks across her grin. Dev followed, taking the middle seat with a thud, while Adele moved with that easy grace of hers, slipping in beside Kira. Zedd took the opposite bench, leaning back, trying not to let the dim glow of the holo-screens drilling ads into his retinas get to him.
The server appeared almost immediately, her eyes half-lidded, the kind of deadpan that came from too many shifts dealing with drunks and idiots. She had a pad in her hand and zero patience.
“Drinks?” she asked flatly, not even trying to fake pleasantries.
“Four house specials. And wings. The spicy ones,” Kira said, kicking back with a grin that said she lived for this.
“Three specials,” Zedd corrected, cutting her off. “And a Silas Cola.”
The server blinked, looking at him like he’d just insulted her family. “Silas? Not Blasto?”
Zedd nodded, unfazed. “Yeah. Silas.”
She rolled her eyes. “Your call,” she muttered before disappearing into the crowd.
Kira turned her attention to him, leaning forward, her grin sharper now, more mocking. “Silas? Really? Richie’s got no taste.”
Zedd arched an eyebrow. “Says the girl drinking house piss. At least I know what’s in mine.”
Adele chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “He’s got a point.”
“Nah, he’s just boring,” Dev chimed in, leaning his elbows on the table. “Zedd, you gotta loosen up. Like, once. For science.”
“Science?” Zedd asked, deadpan.
“Yeah, science,” Dev shot back, his grin wide. “Like studying the effects of not being a buzzkill on your social life.”
“Pass.”
Their drinks arrived, the tray clattering onto the table along with a bucket of wings that smelled like regret. Zedd grabbed his cola, taking a sip as Dev launched into one of his patrol stories, the kind where you could tell half of it was made up but entertaining enough that no one called him on it.
“So then, this guy,” Dev said, gesturing wildly, “he takes one look at me—just one—and books it. Like full-on sprint.”
“And you let him go?” Kira asked, one eyebrow arching.
“Hell no!” Dev looked offended. “I chased his ass halfway across the district.”
Adele shook her head, smiling faintly. “And let me guess. He got away?”
Dev froze, his grin faltering. “...Maybe.”
Zedd snorted, shaking his head. “So basically, you’re the guy they call when they need comic relief.”
“Don’t hate the hustle, Zee,” Dev shot back, pointing a wing at him. “Besides, I’m not the one who spent two hours yesterday fixing a coffee machine.”
“Espresso module, not a coffee machine,” Zedd corrected reflexively.
“Same thing.”
Kira rolled her eyes, cutting in before Dev could argue further. “Anyway, I’ve got real news. Turns out being a biotic means I get special training. Like, actual perks.”
Zedd blinked. Biotic? Seriously? He filed the thought away, keeping his expression neutral. That actually made her spot on the colony ship make a lot more sense. “Explains why you’re insufferable.”
“Keep talking, Richie,” Kira shot back, smirking. “We’ll see who’s insufferable when I can throw you across a room with my brain.”
Adele shook her head, laughing softly. “You two are impossible.”
Their banter was cut short by a sudden, sharp slap of palms hitting the table. The glasses rattled, one of the wings almost toppling over. Zedd’s head snapped up, his shoulders instinctively squaring as his eyes locked on the man standing there.
Connor.
The dickhead junior manager from the energy hub.
The guy looked rough—flushed, swaying slightly, the stink of alcohol clinging to him like a bad cologne. His eyes were bloodshot, and the sneer twisting his face was enough to put Zedd on edge.
“What… what are you doing here?” Connor slurred, the words dragging like he was trying to piece them together as he said them.
Kira’s grin disappeared instantly, replaced by a look sharp enough to cut. “Can we help you?”
Dev leaned forward slightly, his tone dropping into something colder, more serious. “Yeah, bro. You got a problem?”
Zedd stayed quiet, his expression unreadable, as Connor’s bloodshot gaze bore into him. His hands rested on the table, but he felt the fight. In his legs. His ribs. The part of him that kept a count of openings.
Connor, though...
Connor looked one wrong word away from throwing something—probably his fists, maybe his drink. He’d seen tons of guys on the streets the same way—almost vibrating with that unpredictable energy people only carried when they were drunk as fuck and thought they were still in control. And people wonder why I don’t like the shit.
Zedd kept silent as he stared back at Connor with a blank face, the red-faced man staring right back at him.
His thumb twitched, brushing against the edge of the table, nowhere near the gun at his hip, but he could feel the weight of it anyway. The Victor MK 1, sleek and stripped of the cheapness it once carried as a Devlon company Guardian Lite with the blocky, awkward shape, and the lack of proper balancing. It wasn’t just a shitty gun anymore—it was his, through and through. Polymer frame reinforced, tuned perfectly, its matte black finish marked only by the deep red engraving of his name. It hummed with silent potential, the high-efficiency capacitor and micro-gyro stabilizer promising precision and power both.
But he didn’t reach for it.
Not yet.
Connor’s breath reeked of alcohol, but he’d smelled worse. Blood smelled worse.
Kira sat across from Zedd, her sharp eyes flicking between the two men, her posture deceptively casual but ready to spring. Adele was quieter, her grip tightening on the edge of the table like she was already planning an exit route.
Dev, meanwhile, shifted in his seat, his usual ease traded for something tense, like he was waiting for the first punch to fly.
“We got a problem, Connor?” Zedd finally asked, his voice calm, almost bored.
Connor’s laugh was more of a bark, his hand slamming down onto the table, making the glasses jump. “You. Yeah, you’re my problem.” His words slurred slightly, but the venom in them cut through the drunken haze. “The fuck are you even doing here?”
Zedd tilted his head, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. “Sitting. Existing. Offending your delicate sensibilities, apparently.”
Kira snorted at that, leaning back and folding her arms. “He always this charming, or is it just the alc talking?”
Connor ignored her, his attention locked on Zedd like a heat-seeking missile. “You don’t belong here. This place—it’s for us.”
Zedd’s smirk faded slightly as he gestured vaguely at the bar’s interior. “Mmmm… You’re former militia… no, you’ve been at the Hub at least half a decade. Colony’s only officially twice that, I say officially because we both know how frontier colonies work.” He blinked for a half second before he clicked his tongue, realization flooding his mind as he snapped his fingers and let out a slight hum. “Lemme guess, passed basic training but your bald ass couldn’t handle the actual job. Am I close?”
“Watch your mouth,” Connor snarled, stepping closer, his hand twitching like he was debating grabbing something.
“Or what?” Kira interjected, her tone sharp enough to draw blood. Her eyes narrowed, and for a second, Zedd wondered if she’d jump in before he had to.
“Guys, maybe we don’t need to—” Dev started, but he was cut off by another voice.
“Connor.”
The newcomer’s tone was light but firm, cutting through the noise. Tall and wiry, the guy slipped through the crowd with practiced ease, his jacket hanging loose over his thin frame. The leather looked like it had seen better days, patched and worn in ways that suggested more fights than repairs.
“Kief,” Connor spat, not looking at him.
Kief stepped closer, resting a hand on Connor’s shoulder with the kind of casualness that only came from familiarity. “What’s going on here, man?”
Connor gestured wildly at Zedd, nearly toppling his drink. “This asshole doesn’t belong here. He’s—”
“Just sitting,” Zedd interrupted, his voice level but edged with irritation.
“He’s not one of us,” Connor snapped, louder this time, drawing a few glances from nearby tables.
Kief raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to Zedd and back to Connor, and raised both hands in a calming gesture. “Con, bro, that’s not really a rule—”
“You don’t get it, Kief,” Connor snapped, his face reddening further as his voice climbed over the din of the bar. “He took my girl!”
Zedd blinked, his brows knitting together in confusion. “...Nina?” His voice came out quieter than he expected, laced with a disbelief that was quickly replaced by irritation. “You hate me ’cause of Nina?”
“Who’s Nina?” Kira asked, her tone sharp.
Zedd didn’t look at her. “Kay, not the time.” It really wasn’t, especially considering Nina hadn’t even so much as rang his holo in the last 2 months. Apparently, they were more serious than he thought, even though they hadn’t done anything more serious than… well, you know.
He also didn’t know how to bring up to his friend that his kinda-sorta maybe ex-girlfriend carried a hateboner for her when all she knew was her name.
Connor’s hand slammed down again, rattling the table. “You—she’s a good girl, and you took advantage of her!”
Please, shut the ever-loving fuck up. Zedd exhaled, a sharp, clipped sound that teetered on the edge of a laugh. Nina was many things, but she wasn’t some innocent maiden, he knew that for a fact.
“Bad girl, actually,” he said, the words cutting through Connor’s drunken fury for at the very least a moment. “That’s what she prefers to be called. A whole thing with her, honestly. Just for your late night fantasies, big bro.” His voice dipped into a bit more smug as he clicked his tongue on purpose this time, rather than the instinctive tic it usually was “And, let’s be real, if anyone was taking advantage of someone, it wasn’t me.”
Connor’s face twisted, the faint pink flush of alcohol deepening into something darker. The kind of red that came right before someone made a mistake.
“Hey, hey,” Kief broke in, his voice jumping an octave as he tightened his grip on Connor’s shoulder. “Relax, man. He’s just a kid.”
“A kid,” Connor spat, shaking off Kief’s hand, “who doesn’t know his fuckin’ place.”
Zedd tilted his head, expression carefully blank. “Is that Nina’s place or mine?”
Kira’s voice sliced through the tension, her tone dry but laced with irritation. “Seriously, who the hell is Nina?”
The words hit their mark, pulling Connor back into the moment just long enough for Kief to step in again. His voice dropped, his tone firm but not unkind. “All right, that’s enough. Connor, cool off. Kid,” he turned to Zedd, his expression tight, “might be best if you head out.”
Kira bristled immediately, her scowl deepening, her voice rising. “You’re kidding me. He didn’t do anything.”
Adele wasn’t far behind, her arms crossed, her tone cutting. “Yeah, seriously. This guy’s been harassing us since he walked over.”
Zedd sighed, stepping back from the table. “Nah, it’s cool.” The words were low, quiet, as he straightened and adjusted his jacket.
“Zee, c’mon,” Dev started, his voice somewhere between a plea and a warning, but Zedd ignored him.
“No big deal,” Zedd said, his tone casual, almost lazy. The deliberate kind of casual that made it clear he wasn’t taking any of this seriously. As he rounded the table, his steps slow, measured, he let his gaze land on Connor one more time. His voice dropped, just loud enough for Connor to hear. “And let’s not kid ourselves, man. Nina was never your girl.”
Connor’s jaw tightened, his breath hitching like he was gearing up to respond, but Zedd cut him off before he could. “Besides,” he added, his voice quieter, sharper, “we both know she prefers guys who are actually good with their hands.”
That was it.
The line snapped, and the air snapped tight. Connor’s face twisted—too drunk, too angry, and too slow. His fist came first, wild and wide. Zedd dipped under it, a sidestep so casual it felt insulting. The punch missed his jaw by inches, dragging Connor’s momentum forward. His shoulder was open.
Stupid.
Zedd hit him. Quick, sharp— a knuckle jab into the ribs. Short range, all bone. Connor barked pain and staggered sideways, his arm folding in.
The man didn’t quit. He reared back again, a curse slurred and thick as he threw another swing—this one lower, sloppier. Zedd met it half-step forward, caught the wrist, and slammed it down onto the edge of the table.
Bone-on-metal. A crack. Connor’s face split with a howl, his knees buckling as his elbow folded wrong.
Zedd let him fall. Let him hit the floor.
For a second.
Then the bastard grabbed his ankle— drunk instincts, desperate grip.
Zedd’s response was immediate. Ugly. A boot, driven down hard into Connor’s hand. The meaty crunch of fingers hitting floorboards.
Connor’s howl turned sharp, cracking into a yelp as he curled, wrist pinned, body crumpling in on itself.
"Jesus, Zee—" Dev's voice, tight with alarm.
Zedd’s foot lifted. He stepped back. Connor stayed down, coughing through his teeth.
Zedd’s voice came cold and even, like he was already bored. “He’s breathing.”
Silence followed.
Not complete—there was still the faint hum of music, the clinking of glasses—but the conversations around them had dropped off, replaced by the heavy weight of eyes on him.
Zedd straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders, the faint sting in his knuckles already fading. He glanced around, catching a mix of stares—shock, amusement, a few unimpressed expressions—but no one moved to intervene.
Connor groaned from the floor, the man clutching his side, and Zedd exhaled as his eyes went dull again. A half-second later, the world came back into focus and he found himself running a hand through his hair as he forced a sheepish smile. “He swung first?”
Kira’s laugh broke the tension, sharp and loud. “You’re such a dickhead.”