Massive Disaster XIII

Zedd moved through the cluttered chaos of his workshop, each step catching on something—jagged glass shards, stray wires, a thin crust of powdered residue that clung to the soles of his beat-up sneakers.

His fingers, still wrapped in yesterday’s loose bandages, skimmed over the salvaged heat plate, coaxing it to life.

A faint whine from the centrifuge pulled his eyes across the room, upper shelves blurring in his peripheral vision. The contraption shook slightly, uneven weight distribution sending vibrations up through the bench it perched on.

“Don’t explode,” Zedd muttered under his breath, hoarse from hours of silence—or maybe from breathing in the soup of chemical fumes that thickened the air. “Not again.” The ventilation system wheezed to life again, the noise audible. The thing had nearly been overwhelmed by whatever cocktail of half-finished experiments and volatile compounds was simmering in open flasks.

It wasn’t always like this.

There’d been a moment—weeks ago, maybe—when it felt like someone had cracked his skull open and poured everything in.

No warning, no buildup.

Just a flood.

his hands had been steady back then.

His memory flashed, unbidden, to the first time it hit him. Standing under the flickering garage light, fingers twitching at his sides as formulas he didn’t remember learning unspooled in his head.

“N-napalm?” The word had come out shaky, barely audible.

He’d long dropped the champagne all over himself but he stumbled back and nearly slipped on the fluid on the floor, barely catching himself on the workbench as the floor cleaning bot he’d bought for his outside workshop whirred to life.

“Am I losing it?”

The garage hadn’t answered, but the noise in his brain had surged louder, an unwelcome pressure against his temples as the knowledge expanded. He’d rushed inside and pulled off his suit, tossing it who knows where across his house as he tried to keep his thoughts together.

Compounds, catalysts, stabilizers—it was too much.

“Is this how it’s always been?” His voice cracked as he paced his bathroom, almost gripping his hair as he stared into the mirror. “Engineering, coding, everything—was it just... shoved in there? What if none of it’s even real?”

The periodic table was already there, clear as a textbook chart, but sharp. every element slotted perfectly into place, whole reactions unfolding in his mind without any effort, like he’d been living them in his sleep.

For almost an hour, he paced, spiraling through questions he couldn’t answer and wouldn’t know how to if he could. The only thing that snapped him out of it was the sheer volume of noise in his head.

So, he did what he always did when things got loud.

He worked.

Back in the present, the centrifuge’s whine shifted to a higher pitch, shaking him loose from the memory.

“Shit! Not again.”

He stepped closer, leaning into the warped metal counter for balance, his eyes narrowing against the uneven light. The tube inside was starting to froth, a bubbling mess of too much heat, too much pressure.

“No no no—” his hand flew out, slamming the emergency release valve.

The centrifuge sputtered, let out an ear-splitting screech, and stopped dead.

The glass hissed and cracked under the abrupt temperature change, steam curling into the stale air. Zedd stumbled back, coughing into the crook of his elbow.

“Fuck,” he wheezed, his voice cracking against the smoke clawing its way into his lungs. His left hand found the edge of the workbench, gripping it hard enough to feel the sharp grain under his palm. The other hand pressed against his ribs, where hunger had been gnawing for days but now bit sharper, meaner.

He didn't even remember the last thing he ate.

His eyes stung. something chemical—not tears. Rubbing them was an instinct he regretted the second it happened.

“Fuck!”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The first three days were hectic.

One batch ate through its glass housing like acid through paper, leaving a jagged black smear on the workbench and a nasty welt on his forearm where the splash landed. He hadn’t moved fast enough.

The next was worse; an explosion that rattled the shelves and sent smoke crawling up the walls of his home. He'd barely gotten out of the alcove, hacking his lungs raw in the bathroom, spitting curses between gulps of water that didn’t do shit for the burn clawing its way down his throat.

That didn’t stop him.

Day four came with rationing.

Crackers and canned vegetables and corned beef and juice because cooking anything sounded like a death wish. He couldn’t risk fire, not with the fumes in here thick enough to taste. And sleep? He’d sleep when he figured this out. So he worked.

At the very least, he tried to, until the nausea started kicking him sideways and his hands wouldn’t stay still long enough to thread a wire or calibrate a pressure gauge. The migraines hit next, sharp enough to steal his breath.

He hated the moment he reached for the powder again.

The tiny vial sat in his hand now, the blue-white grains catching the harsh overhead light like crushed glass. His thumb rubbed over the label he hadn’t bothered writing, smudging the faint outline of his own fingerprints. Five days.

It’d taken him five whole days to make this.

Granted, some of that alone was setup.

But still, five whole days of his life.

“Genius or crazy,” he muttered, voice scraping against the back of his dry throat. “Yeah, probably both.”

He tilted the vial, watching the powder shift like sand caught in a breeze. Stabilizing it had been hell, but the plant extract and med scraps he’d salvaged had finally worked. When it didn’t blow up or melt his tools, he’d actually laughed—first time in days.

Clear.

He’d named it in the middle of the high, that beautiful two-hour window where everything made sense. Questions he hadn’t even thought to ask clicked into place, solutions spilling out like water over a dam.

The reactions, the math, the ideas—they’d all felt sharp, perfect.

Until they weren’t.

He still remembered the first hit he took raw, not just sprinkled into his water.

The way his thoughts snapped into focus so fast it hurt.

Clarity like nothing he’d ever felt, every sound and stray thought swept away under a tide of precision so cold it burned. but it came at a cost. He could feel it in the way his chest tightened, his pulse hammering too fast, his muscles twitching like they were trying to keep up with the storm in his head.

Can’t be that clear without something breaking, he’d realized when he came down and barely remembered a thing with how fast his thoughts had been going.

He’d promised himself it was a one-time thing.

He broke that promise before the next morning.

Now, he exhaled sharply, lowering the vial as the centrifuge behind him let out a thin whine, signaling another batch ready for testing. He didn’t check it. His legs felt like lead, arms shaking just enough to make him second-guess touching anything.

Even Cear had its limits.

He leaned back against the wall, gaze dragging over the cluttered shelf across the room. Rows of vials stood there, some neatly sealed, others half-finished or outright abandoned. Progress, failure, or obsession—he wasn’t sure anymore.

“Clear,” he muttered, the word cutting against his teeth.

The sound that escaped him wasn’t a laugh.

And just under the weight of it all came her voice.

—Kira’s.

Whatever the hell you’re doing in there, it’s not worth killing yourself over. He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing sweat and grime into an even messier canvas. She didn’t get it.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

This was important.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

His breath came short and ragged, scraping out of his chest like it didn’t belong there. Bent over the distillation rig, Zedd wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing. The hours bled into each other, thin and colorless. What day was it?

No clue.

The faint hiss of vapor condensing to liquid threaded through the workshop, a steady pulse against the background hum of strained machinery. Should’ve been soothing.

Wasn’t.

His nerves, stretched thin as wire, hummed louder. His eyes darted rapid-fire between the dials, pupils dilated and twitching in their sockets as if to process everything at once. Side effect of Clear - heightened visual processing that felt like your eyes were trying to escape your skull.

The air stung, sharp with fumes and scorched residue that bit at his throat every time he breathed in too deep. His gums still tingled faintly, the residue of Clear buzzing like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

Don’t think about it.

He rubbed absently at his jaw, but the thought crept in anyway. The powder wasn’t supposed to be taken raw. Not like this.

Definitely not this much, this often.

His body didn’t care about supposed to.

Neither did he, not right now.

“It’s working,” he muttered. to the rig. to himself. His voice rasped against the air like it’d been dragged through gravel. “Working’s good. yeah. Working’s... working.”

He wasn’t sure if he was convincing the machine or himself.

He’d tried stopping.

That much he remembered. stared down the crumpled remains of a makeshift packet, powder clinging to the edges like static. Half-empty. He'd told himself he didn’t need it.

The formula worked; the rig was fine.

But then the haze hit. Heavy. Thick.

Thoughts swimming slow and sluggish, pooling behind his eyes.

Trying to think straight was a… problem, to say the least.

He’d lasted maybe an hour.

Probably less.

The packet tore open again before he realized what his hands were doing.

He knew he had an addictive personality; it came with the low dopamine and the muted affect, he’d remembered his parents hushed conversations with Dr. Scott about a year before life had gone to hell. He just never thought he’d find anything to actually trigger that part of him…

Wrong.

Zedd tweaked the rig’s heat output, the movement sharp, too precise, like snapping a rubber band to keep from shaking. The ache in his ribs burned hotter when he leaned forward, but he didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

His vision swam at the edges, darkness twisting, and nausea clawed at his stomach.

Didn’t matter.

Ration bars counted as food anyway.

“Rush first,” he muttered, words tumbling over themselves, too fast, tripping like his brain was trying to lap itself. “Rush, then Rough. Wait—no, Rush. Rush is fine. Rough’s later. Rush is good. It's fine. It’s...”

His eyes flicked toward the workbench, landing on the stimulant vial he hadn’t touched yet. The faint glow from its contents caught under the fluorescent lights, pulsing faintly, almost alive.

He hadn’t tested that one. Probably a bad idea.

Clear made him sharper, yeah, and the lack of sleep was a bitch and a half, but it hadn’t completely killed off his survival instincts. not yet.

“Not dying today,” he murmured, the words dry, hollow, like they didn’t quite stick. His gaze lingered on the vial a second longer, mouth pulled tight. “Probably not tomorrow either. Maybe.”

Rush had been hell.

Stabilizing it meant losing two rigs and maybe half a year off his lungs. The cleaning agents he’d used to make it nearly melted through his tools, fumes clawing at his throat. But the formula worked—technically.

Potent, volatile, a problem waiting to happen.

“But it worked,” he hissed.

He blinked a full second later. Again. “W-who am I talking to?” He shook his head, bristling as his fingers twitched.

Zedd tapped the side of the vial with one of those bandaged fingers, the glass cool against his skin. “Later,” he muttered, his jaw tightening. “Fix it later. Too much right now. Later’s fine. Later’s... yeah.”

He set it down harder than he meant to, eyes drifting to the scorch marks still blackened into the far wall. Three days ago—maybe four?—the first batch of Rough had turned the workshop into a smokehouse.

He could still hear the hiss as it hit the centrifuge, the pop right before it caught. Remembered how the heat rolled out in a wave, fast and mean, sending him scrambling to kill the power before the flames jumped to his supplies.

His cough stuck in his throat just thinking about it.

“Stupid,” he’d rasped at himself, lungs burning, hands smacking at the residue clinging to the machine’s base. “So fucking stupid.”

The heat hadn’t even faded before he’d started on the ratios again.

Zedd exhaled through his teeth, the memory sour on his tongue. Rough wasn’t great now, but it was better. The vial sitting on his bench sloshed faintly, thick and dark, almost viscous. The kind of thing that looked like it belonged in a syringe, not a bottle.

It worked.

Kind of.

Numbed pain, dragged you through exhaustion, kept you on your feet longer than you should be. but it came with baggage—paranoia crawling under your skin, anger bubbling up like a scab waiting to burst.

His lips twisted into a grimace as he recalled two hours of feeling like that, all heat and nothing to burn. “Not safe,” he muttered. “Not even close. But it’s a start.”

He straightened—or tried to. His back screamed at him, stiff and aching from damn near countless hours hunched over the bench. Exhaustion hung heavy, the kind Clear couldn’t dull anymore. It sat in his chest like lead, pressing down on his lungs, reminding him his body wasn’t built for this grind.

But his brain buzzed anyway, sharp, constant and relentless as his heart pounded in his ears like a drum.

No rest. No stopping. Not yet.

The distillation rig hissed again, pulling his focus back to the present. The sound cut through the haze, a sharp reminder. Zedd leaned forward, The movement stiff but steady, and carefully transferred the liquid into another vial.

“Done,” he said, barely a whisper. “Done, done, done.”

The chair creaked as he dropped into it, hard metal biting into his back. His laugh came out rough, hollow, but it didn’t stop. It echoed through the workshop, bouncing off machines, rattling around his skull until it sounded almost real.

He’d finished it. Even through the burn scars, the long nights, the shit that wouldn’t stay quiet in his head—he’d done it.

“I’m a fuckin’ genius!”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Zedd jolted awake, head snapping forward as the chair's wobble threatened to dump him onto the floor. His breath hitched, sharp and ragged, as the dull thrum behind his eyes clawed back into focus. Clear wasn’t fading, not fast enough to let him sleep longer than an hour, leaving his nerves scraped raw. Nina and Kira… A pair of dark eyes narrowed. Did they actually show up here or did I… did I dream that?

Definitely would have been the most boring dreams he’d ever had with either of them, being completely honest. Usually I don’t get yelled at in them too. He blinked a half second later, the pale fluorescent lights slicing through the haze. Emergency lights… wh-

His attention flickered as the sight of something else snapped his focus.

Three vials sat lined up on the bench, catching the glare like trophies no one else could ever claim—Clear, Rush, Rough. the crown jewels of thirteen days of work.

"Not perfect," he muttered, voice cracking on the dryness in his throat. His tongue scraped against his teeth, metallic and bitter. "not even close."

The chair tilted back again, balancing on two legs. It creaked under his weight, threatening to give, but he didn’t care. Instead, he stared at the vials, one by one, like he hadn’t already dissected their every fault.

Clear was the safe one. Steady. Clean.

The kind of edge that sharpened without bleeding you dry.

Did it fuck with you after? Sure.

But only if you were already teetering on the brink and using too much. Even still… Thirteen days, twenty-one hours, and approximately thirty-two minutes since the gala. His brain wouldn't let him lose track, not with Clear keeping every second razor-sharp in his memory.

Rush? Hell no.

Sitting in its container, glowing faint like it knew it was too much. Reflexes, perception— good in a fight, if you didn’t care what it did to your head. And Rough...

His eyes narrowed.

Rough was another beast entirely. Pain gone. Rage up. A body high that could break walls if it didn’t break your mind first. Functional? Sure. Controllable? Not even slightly.

He tipped forward with a hard slam, chair legs hitting the floor as the room jolted. "Clear’s good enough to sell," he said to no one.

The laugh that followed wasn’t any better. “If i trusted anyone not to fuck me sideways.”

His neck cracked as he leaned back again, hands dragging down his face. Selling to a corp would be worse than bad. They’d rip it apart, slap their logo on it, turn it into overdoses and husks before the ink dried.

Alliance? Slower, maybe, but the end looked the same.

"Yeah," he muttered, the word hanging thin in the stale air. "Slow fuck’s still a—”

He froze.

A creak.

Faint. barely there, but loud enough to wedge itself into his chest. Paranoia? Maybe. Shadows didn’t sit right when Clear was humming through him, always shifting, jumping in his the corner of his eye.

Wait, his eyes widened as his train of thought tracked back to something he had noticed as soon as he woke up, why are the emergency lights still on?

His breath came sharp as he pushed off the chair, feet hitting the floor harder than they should’ve. What’s going o-?

The slam came faster than his thoughts.

Metal screeched, the door tearing clean off its hinges and skidding into the wall like it had been kicked by a god. Red and black armor filled the doorway, sharp-edged and unmistakable.

The helmet, four lenses glowing faint against the dark.

Batarian.

"Fuck."

He moved before the word fully left him. A bandaged hand shot out, scrambling for the modified pistol perched on the edge of the shelf. Fingers brushed the grip just as the alien’s weapon swung toward him.

The shot hit first.

Not him, but something.

The round tore through the rack of vials behind him as he turned around - Clear, Rush, and Rough exploding in a cocktail of contaminated air and crystalline powder. Force slammed into him like a freight train, but worse was the cloud that hit his face, flooding his lungs with a toxic mix of all three compounds.

Clear's crystals dissolved on his tongue, Rush's stimulants seared his throat, and Rough's synthetic fury flooded his system all at once. His body flew back, weightless and wrong, into the workbench.

The world fractured, chemicals overwhelming his system faster than even his enhanced mind could process. Heat rolled in waves from the burners, but he couldn't tell if it was real or just his body cooking itself from the inside out. Everything blurred—light, motion, sound crashing together as his nervous system rang alarms. His head hit something hard, maybe the bench, maybe the floor, maybe both.

The room spun once, sharp and sideways. Colors bled together, emergency lights stretching into red streaks across his vision as his pupils dilated to their limit. His thoughts fragmented - Clear's crystalline focus shattering into pieces as Rough's rage and Rush's hyperawareness tore through what was left of his consciousness.

Then nothing.