Noah Langford - July 2120
The air this morning is warm but oppressively still, as if the world itself watches me. Dew clings to my shoes, cold and persistent, and the grass glimmers like scattered prisms beneath my feet.
It is early. The usual clatter of the world has not begun. Only the birds break the silence, their calls intricate, deliberate, a fragile symphony in the pale light. My footsteps follow a measured rhythm, syncing with the soft earth beneath me.
Logic, memory, and muscle memory intertwine as I walk, the path is known, as though my body has archived it, a record of countless times spent in this quiet deliberation.
I stop abruptly before a grave. The stone itself is plain, bare, unremarkable to anyone who doesn't know its significance. Yet to me, it is singular, a locus of meaning in a field of anonymity.
I crouch and arrange the flowers with meticulous care, noting how their stems intersect with the uneven grass. The scent is faint, almost clinical in its sweetness, but grounding. I tilt my head and study the inscription.
Kai Langford.
Six years. Since that day, I have catalogued the world with the same acuity as always, noting patterns, analysing behaviour—but grief is an anomaly. It resists logic, a variable impossible to solve. Father believes I should have moved on. He cannot comprehend some variables remain unchanging, not by choice.
trace the carved letters with my finger, feeling the permanence of stone against the fragility of memory. Kai existed, then he did not. His absence is more instructive than any lesson in a book.
I close my eyes, allowing myself the briefest indulgence in remembrance. Logic fails here. Memory intrudes where reason cannot follow.His laugh echoes faintly, sharp and deliberate.
The breeze shifts, scattering the birds' chorus for a moment, leaving a strange stillness in its wake. I rise slowly, noting the dew clinging stubbornly to my trousers, the faint scent of wet grass mingling with the crisp morning air.
But now I am not longer alone, there is something else. A Presence. Calculated, deliberate, and human.
"It's rude to interrupt someone paying their respects," I say calmly, my voice cutting through the quiet. It is too early in the morning for this.
The stranger is tall, broad-shouldered, and far too confident. The knife in his hand catches the rising sun, a flash of metal that should inspire fear. But I feel nothing. Only observation.
"Langford, I'll need you to come with me," he says, voice edged with threat, but even as the words leave his mouth, I am already analysing him: the slight quiver in his hand, the uneven stance, the overextension of his arm. Amateur.
Another day, another failed attempt. They all operate under the same assumptions, no subtlety, no critical thought. They presume I am weak, compliant, easily manipulated; that abducting me and demanding a ransom would rewrite their fortunes. And, as always, they are profoundly mistaken.
"Oh my. How fearsome," I murmur, letting a mocking inflection slip as he advances, knife inching toward my neck. I lift my hands in feigned compliance.Fear is a variable, one I have long since neutralised.
"Who would have thought you'd be such an easy target?" he continues, teeth yellowed, mocking. "Why would a man like you come here… alone?"
"Who said I was alone?" I reply, deliberate, letting the words hang like a trap.
Confusion flickers across his face. Then, before he can speak again, blood bursts from the side of his temple and his body collapses. A small splash stains my shoes. I do not flinch.
Behind him, Finn emerges, posture precise and confident. His arm is steady, gun raised in perfect trajectory. No panic. No hesitation. Only efficiency.
I exhale, calm, assessing the aftermath. This is the reality of the life I lead. And yet, even in the midst of violence, the analytical part of me, my mind, cannot help but note the pattern, the miscalculations, the arrogance of those who underestimate me.
"Finn," I say quietly, almost to myself, "you've improved. But next time, try not to get the blood on me"
The morning resumes its muted rhythm. The birds resume their songs. And I step forward, as if nothing had happened, as if the world and its chaos were merely variables waiting to be solved.
"Sorry about that. I thought I had angled it just right," Finn says, falling into step beside me.
"But I did tell you to let me come with you," he continues, sliding his gun back into its holster with a practised ease.
"You knew as well as I did that he wouldn't have shown himself if you'd been too close," I reply, keeping my gaze forward.
The stranger had been trailing us since we left the house this morning. Finn had wanted to stop the car and deal with him then, but the estate is crawling with watchful eyes. Here, at this hour, there is none.
I notice the tension on Finn's face before he can mask it, the slight tightening around his jaw, the way his eyes flick to mine. He dislikes leaving me alone, worried that I might get hurt. I stop mid-step, forcing him to pause a fraction too late, and turn to face me.
"Finn," I say evenly, "I can only do things like this without fear because I have you by my side." His expression falters briefly, caught off guard.
He scratches the back of his head, a faint pink at his ears. I smile, pat him on the back. Subtle signals, human vulnerability, he thinks he hides them, but I see everything.
"Come on. Let's get to the lab."
As we head back to the car, shadows move around us. Men dressed in dark clothes, purposeful, silent. We acknowledge them with nothing more than a quick nod. They pass, the focus forward, toward where the body lies.
____________________________
By the time we reach GeneX, the building is alive with movement. People step aside, offering quick "good mornings" before hurrying to their tasks. I nod, wearing the expression expected of Joseph Langford's son, filing the exchange away like a routine on a checklist.
Corridors line with posters advertise a narrative I helped develop. My own face stares back: lab coat, easy smile, Lunex Vial cradled like a promise. THE NEXT GENERATION, the motto proclaims.
When I first started here, I was introduced as my father's son, as if I were just an extension of him. But years of loyalty, deliberate work, papers, experiments, and tangible improvements, have changed that. I am no longer a puppet defined by someone else's reputation.
When my adjustment to the Lunex formulation reduced fatalities rates by thirty-three percent, the company hailed me a saviour and a genius. Father smiled, but he ensured no one forgot where my abilities supposedly came from. It was his way of protecting himself from being overshadowed by my intelligence. He claimed my mind as part of his legacy, rather than acknowledging my own effort.
However, the survival project stopped being my goal long ago. After Kai, "survival" was just a stepping stone to advance within the company. My focus shifted to something more precise: understanding, and reversing, the effects of those who survive the Lunex mutation. To uncover the mechanism that embeds power into DNA, and then find a way to counter it. To reverse it. That is the work that truly keeps me awake at night.
As Finn and I press toward the lift that takes us to the laboratory we are halted by two figures block the corridor.
Neil Carr, board member and master of inconvenient requests, he has a smile that always arrives before the intent. And beside him stands Guardian Murphy, a man whose presence primes a memory I have not allowed myself to dissolve. Fire, raw, visible, dangerous. I first saw him the day my brother and uncle died. The sight still resets the temperature in my chest.
I feel irritation like a slow current and set my best face in place.
"Mr Carr, Guardian Murphy. How can I help you today?" my smile is the practiced one, evenly pitched and pleasant enough to keep predatory curiosity at bay.
"Noah," Carr says. The tone is conversational but clinical; when he needs me, it generally means they want something that will sap time or attention. "Just the man I was looking for."
He pats Murphy's arm by way of theatrics. "The board thought it would be advantageous for you to co-present at the next investor speech, alongside Guardian Murphy. It would appeal to a younger demographic."
Murphy stands like a monument, tall, confident, the kind of man whose arrogance is fed by applause.
The board's reasoning is straightforward and mercantile: pair the scientist who improved Lunex's safety with the Guardian who demonstrates its power. On the surface, it looks good in headlines and social media. Beneath it? They want a human spectacle to distract from the ethical conflicts at the heart of our work.
"Of course, Mr Carr." I say. I could decline and watch the board replace me with someone else. But if I refuse I could also be refusing access to resources I needed. So I lie.
When they leave, Finn and I step into the lift. We ride the thirty-five floors in a silence that builds like pressure. My irritation intensifies with each digit the display passes: 12, 18, 24…
The doors open and I swipe my key card. We step into our space and the professional mask, so essential in public, begins to crack. Finn lingers a breath behind me; his hesitation is micro-fine but visible. Knowing it is only the two of us, the last tether of performative calm snaps.
"Idiots," I say, and the single word is more rage than sound. I throw the notes from my desk and let them scatter, they flutter like carcasses.. I slump into my chair, the gesture is theatrical, but not false.
Even as the last sheet skims the carpet, Finn is already stooping, collecting the pages with methodical care. He moves quietly as ever, practical, competent.
"How does me delivering a speech secure younger investors?" I demand, voice taut. My logic, usually crystalline, feels clouded by the memory of when Murphy's flamboyance turned to catastrophe. If Murphy had not been so eager to display his power, had not let spectacle trump discipline, the escalation might have been contained. There would have been fewer... bodies.
I press my hands against my face and let out an exaggerated sigh.
Why should I wait? Should I just destroy everything now?
Lost in the thought, I barely register the movement until my chair is pulled back from the desk, snapping my attention sharply back to the present.
Finn leans on the desk where my chair once sat and simply watches. His silence is an instrument he uses well. I feel my pulse slow under his gaze.
"Noah," he says quietly, "I've told you before, I'll kill Murphy if you give the word."
He would. He always surprises me in that way, total, uncomplicated loyalty I cannot account for. There is a perverse comfort in the thought of Murphy at my feet, but it is a dangerous comfort.
Finn is supremely capable, but without the Lunex modifications his odds against a true Guardian are worse than he imagines. Even with my improved formulation raising survival probability, the mutation remains unpredictable.
I refused Finn's request for the vial once. The ethical calculus was simple, risking his life on an experimental mutation for my sake is reckless. My work might increase survival rates, but it cannot guarantee anything. And the possibility of losing him left a dull ache in my chest.
I let my head fall back against the chair and taste the disappointment of emotion intruding on reason.
"No, Finn," I say at last, voice soft but absolute. "You know I can't let you do that."
He nods, reluctantly. He understands the variables, in his own way. He places the gathered sheets on my desk with the same care he used earlier to pick them up, and the room's air settles back into a fragile, temporary equilibrium.
I watch him carefully, and when his eyes meet mine again, I feel a faint, unnerving sensation, a feeling I still don't fully understand after all these years.
He suddenly pushes back from the desk and ruffles my hair before walking away. "I'll go sort your coffee out, and you, take your meds" he says, waving casually over his shoulder.
He has a way of making me feel calm without even trying. When Kai died, I feared Finn would vanish from my life as well. After all, he had been Kai's sparring partner. But the opposite happened.
He came to visit me more often. We walked to and from school together. When I used to lock myself in my room, mourning over Kai, he would appear with food and sit with me in silence, never asking, never pushing, just sitting.
By the time I climbed the ranks within the company, Finn had dedicated himself as my security guard, and when I finally moved out of my father's house, he came with me. Somehow, he always did.
I lean back in my chair, flick the cap off the bottle, and tip two pills into my palm. They click against my teeth as I swallow them dry. My gaze drifts to the window.
Outside, somewhere beyond the reinforced windows, the city hums. Inside, with the paperwork rearranged and the humming of the machines within the lab, I resume the actor's role, lab director, innovator, the face on the company.
The truth remains, everything I do, every compromise and performance, is scaffolded around an aim I have not yet achieved and I will let nothing stop me from it.
____________________________
Time moves differently in the lab. Hours fold into one another until day and night become interchangeable variables. When I'm working, the world beyond these walls ceases to exist.
The only thing that keeps me tethered to time's passage is Finn, arriving with coffee, then lunch, then dinner. He stays until I've eaten, then disappears to the security room to monitor the perimeter with the others.
He might be my security guard, but nothing can enter this lab without my approval.
A low buzz breaks through the hum of the ventilation system, an access request. I set the pipette back onto the bench and push my goggles up to rest on my head, releasing a quiet sigh.
20:27 p.m. Another long day. But who would be visiting me at this hour?
I walk over to the monitor, fatigue heavy in my limbs, and then I see him.
...Why is he here?
I press the button to unlock the door and turn to my desk in the office before he enters.
He strides in with the same confidence he has always carried, as though the air itself makes space for him.
"Father," I say, lowering myself into my chair.
"Noah," he replies, the word clipped and formal.
"What can I help you with so late?" My smile is mechanical, polished, convincing, a perfected act.
He doesn't ask for permission before sitting on the sofa along the wall. His eyes wander across to the lab, scanning for faults, inefficiencies, or perhaps signs of disobedience.
"Can't a father come and see his son?" he asks at last.
Unlikely. My father doesn't waste time on sentiment unless there's something to be gained from it.
"You and I both know that's not something you would do," I answer evenly. Ever since I left his house and secured my own department at GeneX, I've had no desire to prove anything to him.
The less contact with him, the better. Even stepping away from the Survival Rate Project was a strategic decision, distance under the guise of innovation.
The board protested at first, but when I mentioned pursuing a new direction, curiosity outweighed resistance. The only person dissatisfied was my father.
To him, my purpose existed solely to perfect his precious Lunex Vial.
When I told him I wanted to follow my own path, he was furious. It was the first and only time he ever struck me. The marks on my face faded, but the memory didn't. At the time, it had taken all my power, to stop Finn's intervention, to stop the situation from escalating further.
A thin smile ghosts across his face now, the kind that precedes something unpleasant.
"I thought you should know," he says finally, "our informants have located a private facility producing Nexa."
For a moment, the world narrows to silence. My heartbeat stumbles.
He sees the reaction, of course, and looks pleased.
Nexa. The synthetic strain designed to read Lunex-altered genomes, an essential component in my work to neutralise the mutation's effects. I discovered its potential while improving the survival rates of the Lunex Vial, but Nexa is difficult to produce, even here. It requires rare reagents and absolute precision. A single deviation renders it inert or catastrophically unstable.
I've been trying for months to secure more material. The fact an external facility has produced any at all is... improbable.
"How could a private lab produce something so complex, something even GeneX struggles to stabilise?" I manage to ask, keeping my voice level.
"I intend to find out," my father replies, his smile fading into the cold neutrality that suits him better. "But I came to tell you for a reason. I'll give you the Nexa Strain, along with any data recovered."
I wait, because there's always a condition.
"In exchange," he says, "I want you back in my department. On the Survival Rate Project."
Of course. Another chain disguised as an offer. Another attempt to drag me back under his control, to remind me that, in his eyes, I will always be an extension of him.
But without Nexa, my current research has stalled to a crawl. Logic demands compromise, even when it tastes like defeat.
I exhale through my nose, slow and measured. "Fine. I'll assist, but only two days a week. My current project remains my priority."
He studies me for a moment, then stands.
"Agreed," he says at last. "Continue whatever secret work you're doing, as long as it doesn't interfere with mine."
He moves toward the door. "I've already sent my Special Division to retrieve the Nexa. It should arrive on your desk by the end of tomorrow."
He doesn't wait for my response before leaving.
The door seals behind him, leaving only the quiet hum of the lab through glass wall and the faint echo of his words.
His Special Operations Division. A secret department, answerable only to him.
Even within GeneX, no one speaks of it openly.
I stare at the closed door for a long moment before sinking back into my chair. The air feels heavier now, the lights too bright.
If his Division is involved, then Nexa won't arrive without consequence.