Zedd leaned against the far wall of the room, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders relaxed.
His eyes, though, weren’t.
They moved slow, picking the place apart piece by piece like he needed to file it away for later.
The room was too pristine. Too much money thrown at it.
Marble floors shined so bright they reflected the soft lighting overhead, the polished stone cool enough to feel through his dress shoes. Walls lined with wood paneling that screamed imported—not cheap knockoff, either, but the real thing. Genuine Earth oak, probably worth more than his entire garage.
Imported for effect.
He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself not to fidget. Everything about the place felt deliberate, the kind of effort that made him itch.
Soft orchestral music drifted around, background noise that sounded… off. Classical? No, he knew what classical sounded like. Dad played it all the time. Which dad, exactly, he wasn’t exactly sure as ten months hadn’t exactly helped him keep memories from overlapping each other but he knew it was at least one of them.
Problem is… this sounds like shit. Like someone fed Bach through a neural net and let an VI remix it. Just off…
Like everything and everyone else in here, aptly enough.
The crowd moved like they owned the place, which they probably did. Tailored suits and shimmering dresses gleamed under the lights, their every detail screaming wealth without having to say a damn word.
The kind of rich you couldn’t afford to rob, because the blowback would be worse than just going to prison when you got caught.
Zedd glanced down at his own suit, and a faint grimace tugged at the corner of his mouth. It fit him fine—hell, It’d better, considering the 1,500 cred he dropped on it—but it wasn’t even close to the level of polish these people were dripping with. Wouldn’t even be a rounding error in their dry-cleaning bill.
His eyes flicked to one of the servers gliding past, their tray of champagne flutes balanced perfectly. The thought hit him sideways: even they’re better dressed than me. He shoved the feeling down, shifted his weight against the wall like it didn’t matter.
“Comfortable?” a voice broke through his thoughts, smooth and low.
Zedd turned his head, already knowing who he’d see. Takahashi stood beside him, a glass of amber liquid balanced in his hand. The man’s tailored jacket looked every bit as sharp as the easy confidence in his stance.
Annoying, really.
“Comfortable’s pushing it,” Zedd said, voice low. “But I'm here, so there’s that.”
Takahashi's smirk was faint, almost more in his eyes than his mouth as he took a slow sip from his champagne flute. “True. And that’s more than most.”
Zedd’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That supposed to mean something?”
“It means most people like you don’t get into rooms like this,” Takahashi said, his tone calm, deliberate. he gestured vaguely toward the crowd, his movements subtle but pointed.
Zedd stiffened slightly at the phrasing, though he kept his tone even. “People like me?”
Takahashi met his gaze without flinching. “Young. Self-made. Not tied to the system. Uncaring of the rules and standards of the Alliance, even the colonists… they just follow the leader and his rules without thinking too hard. It’s a simple fact that most people are rather lacking in agency, and they don’t simply do things, not unless it’s easy or immediately extremely rewarding, You understand? ” he paused, voice softening just enough to take the edge off. “It's a compliment.”
Zedd snorted, glancing back at the room. his tone stayed flat. “Yeah, sure. Feels real complimentary.”
The pause stretched for a beat too long, Takahashi’s gaze sharp before it shifted toward the center of the room. “You should mingle,” he said, his tone light but pointed. “There are people here who’d find your work... intriguing.”
Zedd raised an eyebrow, his mouth tugging into a faint smirk he didn’t actually feel.
He didn’t answer right away, instead letting his eyes trail across the clusters of people filling the room. Loud laughter rolled out from one corner while other groups huddled close, their voices low, conspiratorial. His lips twitched into something closer to a grimace. “Everyone here wants something,” he muttered, half under his breath.
“Everyone always wants something.” Takahashi let out a quiet chuckle. “Welcome to the galaxy, Mr. Victors.” Without waiting for a response, he slipped away, disappearing into the crowd with a practiced smile intended for someone he probably couldn’t stand.
Zedd stayed put, hands buried in his pockets as people moved through the space with poorly-disguised precision, every gesture measured, every step deliberate. Conversations buzzed around him, layers of overlapping chatter that felt both meaningless and sharp-edged as smiles stretched too wide, laughter came a half-second too late. Fake.
He stayed to the edges, drifting slowly along the perimeter like a ghost. Wouldn’t trust almost anyone in here with even a single cred.
A woman in a sleek black dress stood near the middle of the room, her hand slicing the air sharply as she spoke to two men with identical corporate badges pinned to their lapels. Her voice carried just enough to turn heads without outright shouting, her tone clipped, her body language aggressive.
Not far off, a younger man hovered at the edge of a different group, his nods too eager, his smile frozen in place. Same fucking smile, how do they not see it? At the bar, a man with a booming laugh and a thick mustache leaned into his audience, his gaze flicking between faces as if mentally sorting them into columns—useful and not.
Zedd’s stomach twisted. Yeah. Not for me.
It didn’t take long for someone to notice him lingering.
A woman, middle-aged, sharp-eyed, intercepted him before he could slip into the next shadowed corner. The marketing badge on her jacket practically gleamed under the recessed lighting, and her smile was wide and warm. The handshake she offered was firm, professional, practiced, but her eyes—those gave her away.
Why don’t they ever try to match the smiles? He couldn’t help but wonder. All of them had the same exact problem.
“Zedd Victors,” she said, her voice smooth, polished, all edges sanded down to perfection. “I've been hoping to run into you tonight.”
I… I’m not a fan of people knowing my name for no reason. Zedd shook her hand, keeping his grip steady, his face carefully blank. “Lucky me.”
Her laugh was low, rehearsed. not a sound that meant anything. “Word’s gotten around about your work. That custom job for a… Lieutenant Rourke, I believe? Impressive.”
Zedd shrugged, his tone flat. “Just another job.”
Her smile widened, bright but brittle, as she slipped a sleek contact card from her jacket. The Devlon logo shimmered faintly in the soft light, a small holographic detail that screamed precision and money. “What you did was... unique. Devlon prides itself on spotting exceptional talent, and I think you’d find our engineering team very... accommodating.”
Zedd took the card, barely glancing at it before tucking it into his pocket. His eyes stayed locked on hers. “I'll think about it.”
“I hope you do,” she replied, her tone chipper, final. She didn’t wait for a response before moving on, her attention already shifting to the next target.
Zedd watched her go, his jaw tightening. She didn’t even introduce herself.
It didn’t stop there.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
They came one after another—with firm handshakes and firmer smiles, sharp questions dressed up in compliments. A mining executive asked about power efficiency like Zedd was a rookie getting quizzed. A wiry guy from a security startup cornered him near the bar, dropping words like “synergy” and “partnership” without saying anything that mattered. A woman from some Traverse-focused tech blog pushed for details on his methods, her wide-eyed curiosity hiding the thin blade of professional interest.
None of them cared about the hours he’d spent troubleshooting circuits or the way his fingers burned after too much time soldering wires. They didn’t care about the trial and error, about how half the time his work came from scraps he dragged from salvage and barely managed to slam together.
They didn’t care about him.
All they wanted was what they thought they could pull out of his head.
Zedd drifted back to the wall, his spot, jaw tight and eyes sharp as he scanned the room. Every laugh, every motion, every polished smile grated against something deep in his chest. They’re good at this. The fluidity in how they moved, their banter flipping to razor-sharp negotiation in an instant—it all had a kind of calculated ease.
Watching it play out, though? He could see the cracks.
Too eager, he noted, his gaze catching on a younger guy leaning too far into the space of a suited exec, his handshake too vigorous. Too pushy, as a silver-haired woman jabbed a finger into the air while making her point to a bored-looking cluster of listeners. Tone it the fuck down, he thought as the man at the bar let out a booming laugh that couldn’t possibly hide how his eyes darted between faces like he was tracking inventory.
All trying too hard.
All of it… just… he sneered for an instant, just remembering to control his expression. Bullshit.
He shifted his weight, leaning further into the wall and letting his hands sink deeper into his pockets. His mouth pressed into a line as he scanned the room.
Toward the center, movement caught his eye.
A man entered, cutting through the space like the room was built to accommodate him. The suit he wore gleamed under the soft lights, edges so sharp they could’ve been pressed that morning.
His entourage followed, their movements tight and coordinated, sticking close without seeming like they were hovering.
What really stuck, though, was the guy’s smile—too perfect, too plastic.
“Who's that?” Zedd muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. His voice stayed low, careful, like it’d give something away if he said it too loud.
A voice behind him answered, cutting through his thoughts. “Daniel Shen-Abraham.”
His body jerked before he could stop it, a twitch he couldn’t hide as he turned toward the speaker. The flash of blue hair made his shoulders drop slightly, the tension slipping.
Kira stood there, arms crossed, her usual smirk tilted just enough to soften the edge. Her head tipped slightly toward the man in the suit, who now stood mid-conversation with an older couple in matching outfits, his expression one of exaggerated concern.
“Founder. Governor. Basically the self-declared king of New Abraham, considering he named it after himself,” she said, her voice dripping with sardonic weight, the words coming out like they were being read off a script she’d memorized but couldn’t stand to repeat.
Zedd blinked, turning his head back toward the man as he processed the information. “Oh,” he said simply, his voice flat. There wasn’t anything else to say. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Kira rolled her eyes, her smirk inching wider. “Didn’t expect to see your ass here either.”
Her gaze dipped briefly, skimming over his suit. “You clean up nice, richie. Didn’t think you even owned anything that didn’t smell like grease.”
Zedd snorted, his eyes narrowing slightly as he gave her a once-over.
Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, but it was the dress that hit like a punch. Shimmering cobalt, bold, the kind of thing that was all sharp lines and unapologetic edges. It clung to her in ways that felt deliberate, and it didn’t stop there. The neckline dipped low and the hem hovered just above her knees, equal parts flashy and defiant.
His gaze flicked over the jewelry—silver, chunky—and the sequins catching the light. It was loud, on purpose.
No subtlety.
No understated elegance like the rest of the room. She was dressed like she wanted everyone to see her, just like the day he met her.
Classic Kira. He let the smirk tug wider. “and you’re still impossible.”
Her grin sharpened, but before she could fire back, someone else stepped into their space.
The guy who'd been hovering near her earlier—a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, neatly cropped hair—moved closer. His posture was stiff, like he was stuck in parade rest, and his steps were calculated, too precise. His right hand kept twitching toward where a sidearm would sit, and his eyes swept the room in practiced three-second scans.
Military, no question.
His gaze flicked between Zedd and Kira, quick but deliberate, as if sizing them both up in less than a second. “You’re the repair tech Kira mentioned,” he said, his voice steady, neutral, but probing.
Zedd crossed his arms, his expression unreadable but his tone cutting. “That's me. And you’re her babysitter, I'm guessing?”
Kira snorted, sharp and immediate, the sound bursting out before she could stop it. The faintest twitch of something that might’ve been amusement flickered at the corners of the man’s mouth, but it didn’t last.
“Lieutenant Adams,” he corrected, his tone still even, calm. “And yes, you could say that.”
So this is her biotic boss. Zedd’s eyebrows lifted just enough to show he was unimpressed, the smirk creeping back into place. “Well, good luck with that.”
Adams’ face didn’t move much—just a slight narrowing of his eyes, like he was tucking the comment away for later. “Thanks. I'll need it.”
------------------------
Thirty minutes later, Zedd was out. muttered something vague about the restroom before slipping through the crowd. No one stopped him.
Not like anyone cared that much.
He didn't slow down until the noise softened behind him, the heavy buzz of the gala replaced by the quieter hum of the building's back halls. Clean lines, polished floors. The air felt different here—cooler, with that sharp edge of industrial cleaners trying to mask recycled air. Colony environmental systems always left that metallic taste at the back of your throat.
His pace faltered when a voice bled through the crack of an open door.
“...shielding gaps outside major downtown areas…”
He froze, his body snapping to stillness before his brain even caught up. His head tilted slightly toward the sound.
“...dangerous if breached…”
“Of course. Abraham cut corners. always does…”
His stomach turned. his pulse thudded too hard, too loud in his ears. His feet felt rooted in place for a second longer before he shook himself loose, forcing his legs to move, each step slow and deliberate.
The pieces swirled in his head but he shoved the thought down.
Paranoia’s a bad look.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
The garage greeted him with silence, the faint hum of the charging station the only noise cutting through the stillness.
Zedd dropped into the chair, slouching back, one foot hooking against the edge of the workbench while the other stayed planted firm on the ground.
The bottle in his hand felt odd.
He hated drinking.
He’d done it once, almost a year ago now, right before he’d fled Earth. Hell, it was half the reason he’d fled Earth.
But tonight? Tonight he didn’t give a shit.
He tipped the bottle back, the fizz burning on its way down, cheap and acidic.
His jaw tightened as the taste lingered, sour and unsatisfying, but he didn’t stop.
It was better than thinking about the gala. About the faces and their fake-ass smiles, every word they said wrapped in some hidden agenda. None of it was real. They didn’t care about him or his skills, not in any real way.
They wanted to use him, probably locking him into some permanent contract that would make him half a slave. He’d heard about plenty of planets in the galaxy like that.
His hand tightened around the bottle, lifting it again. But before he could take another swig, his body stopped.
His grip slackened, the bottle slipping free.
Glass hit the floor with a loud crack, the sound reaching him like it was traveling through water. Cold champagne soaked his suit trousers, his brand-new syn-leather shoes, but he couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything except the pressure building behind his eyes.
The room tilted sideways for a second, then snapped back too sharp, too clear. His pulse thundered in his ears, each heartbeat sending static through his vision. The overhead light seemed to pulse, growing brighter, then darker, then impossibly bright.
Didn’t blink.
His eyes were locked ahead, glazed and distant.
His mind wasn’t blank. It was worse than blank.
It was crowded.
Numbers, formulas, equations—shit that didn’t belong—pushed into his brain all at once. The periodic table scrolled past his thoughts like a neon billboard, each element lighting up vivid and sharp.
Atomic weights. Molecular structures. Chemical equations. Table salt? Sodium chloride. Sure. But tweak it here, add this, change that... Wait, what the hell?
His thoughts jumped tracks, spinning into reactions he didn’t recognize. The chemical formulas burning through his mind had taste and texture now—metallic, sharp, leaving phantom sensations on his tongue as each compound assembled itself in his thoughts.
“This… this…” he rasped, hands grasping at his worktable for support. This doesn’t make sense.
But it did.
And that was the fucking problem.
Dipotassium phosphate. Acetaminophen synthesis. So many fuckin’ compounds and their exact chemical structures, some that didn’t even make fuckin’ sense. All of it poured in, flooding his head with shit he had no idea how he was supposed to understand.
His chest hitched, breathing frozen in his chest. Like it was clogged leaving his throat. A-am I dying?
No. No, just... wrong.
Everything was wrong. “What… what the fuck is this?”