Joseph Langford - July 2120
I stand calmly, a tablet in one hand, pen in the other, eyes fixed on the convulsing girl before me. Her body shakes violently against the restraints, eyes rolled back, a steady stream of blood running from her nose. The monitors flare red, alarms blinking faintly under the harsh white light.
"She has hit her limits now," Dr. Williams calls from the other side of the room, voice calm but urgent, eyes flicking between screens.
I don't look at him. My attention is on the data, on the seconds ticking down, on the faint tremor that betrays the exact moment she will burnout.
"Commence," I say, voice clipped, precise. My pen moves across the tablet as the lab assistant steps forward with a capped syringe. They push the plunger slightly, ensuring the liquid reaches the tip, before stepping closer to the restrained girl. Guards hold her down to keep her from flailing.
The assistant plunges the syringe into her neck. I press the timer on my watch.
Immediately, her body stops convulsing. Her head rolls to the side.
Four… three… two… one…
Then, her head snaps upright, eyes wide, mouth opening in a scream that ricochets against the sterile walls. She gasps for air, hands jerking against the restraints, trying to escape. Foam begins to form at her mouth and then her strength fails, and her head drops.
The beeping on the machines slows, slower and slower, until it ceases entirely. Silence. Another failure.
I let out a slow, controlled sigh of disappointment, waving the guard over. They remove her body with mechanical efficiency, dragging her from the room.
Dr. Williams approaches, voice hesitant, attempting to disguise concern with clinical detachment.
"So far, only 20% of the test subjects have survived the treatment."
Only twenty percent. A figure I expected, though it does nothing to temper my irritation. We are only in early stages of development. Failures are inevitable. But still...
He continues. "Perhaps Noah could look at the formulation. Maybe there's something we're missing."
I turn sharply to face him, tone sharp, controlled, cold. "We're only at early stages. Are you implying Noah is more capable than me?"
Williams hesitates, hands raised defensively. "No, not at all."
"Good," I reply, voice steady, detached. Yet beneath the surface, a calculated irritation stirs. Why involve Noah, as though he surpasses me? I created him, constructed his parameters. He will never exceed his origin. His function is to follow in my footsteps.
I place the tablet on the desk and resume scanning the data, suppressing the irritation. Progress has stagnated, but the requirement for sustained experimentation permits no deviation from procedure.
The door slides open without prior notice, and a guard enters, his expression marked by agitation. I acknowledge him with a brief glance. "Report," I state evenly, my tone measured, though my focus sharpens in anticipation.
The guard hesitates. "004… he has failed his mission. He… he's been taken by the enemy."
The words hang in the air. My pen stills. I turn fully to him, expression blank but mind racing.
Kai. His first independent operation, executed under strictly controlled parameters, yet he failed. The outcome is unacceptable and disappointing. And now he is compromised, currently in enemy possession.
I draw a measured breath, quantifying the irritation, the deviation from expected performance metrics. He was engineered for optimal compliance and operational efficiency, an extension of my directive authority. And yet… failure.
"Send a team immediately. Retrieve him. Dead or alive. He must not remain in their possession." My voice leaves no room for question. The guard nods and rushes out.
I close my eyes for a moment, imagining Kai's face as he falters, imagining the consequences of allowing the enemy to gain even a fragment of what I've worked to create. Years of training, meticulous conditioning, every lesson, every mission designed to mold him into an instrument of my will… wasted if he cannot execute one small operation on his own.
I open my eyes. Disappointment solidifies into resolve. If he cannot succeed, he is no longer of use. I have no space for error, not in this work. My resources are limited and my patience even more so.
I return to my office and settle behind the desk, reviewing the day's deficiencies. The burnout cure, another failed trial. Kai, compromised and lost to enemy control. Two failures within a single cycle. Unacceptable.
I exhale slowly, forcing my attention back to what remains critical. The project must take precedence. Refining the cure is the current priority, all other matters are secondary variables.
Time progresses unnoticed until a sharp knock interrupts the silence.
"Enter," I say, tone level, eyes still fixed on the data before me.
The guard enters with measured steps, posture rigid, hands clasped neatly behind his back.
"I am here to report," he says, voice steady but tinged with restraint.
I interlace my fingers atop the desk and give a slight nod. "Proceed."
"A retrieval unit of Division Operators was dispatched. They tracked the signal to the target coordinates and…" he hesitates briefly before producing an object from behind his back, a metallic collar, dull under the office light. "004's collar was located at the site."
I regard the device in silence, studying it as he places it on the desk before me. The surface bears no damage, no distortion, no signs of forced removal. Intriguing. A small faction of so-called revolutionaries managing to detach a neural restraint of that complexity without triggering the failsafe. Either a statistical anomaly or an indication of external interference beyond their expected capability.
Still, the condition of the collar is irrelevant. What matters is that this same group now possesses both Dr. Thomas and Kai. Two assets, one intellectual and one operational, both compromised. The implications extend beyond containment failure, they threaten the structural integrity of everything I've built.
I pick up the collar, turning it between my fingers, the cold metal reflecting the light. "Continue monitoring the signal residue," I instruct evenly.
"Pursue all leads, cross-reference CCTV footage, satellite feeds, and field reports. They must be located before any classified data is compromised," I instruct, tone precise and unyielding. "Also, retrieve the full footage from 004's last operation and deliver it to my terminal."
The guard nods and retreats silently.
As the door closes, I remain still for a moment, examining the collar once more. They think they can dismantle what I've created, strip away control, undo precision with chaos. A foolish notion.
I set the collar down gently beside the tablet and begin drafting the next phase of retrieval protocol. This isn't a setback, it's an opportunity to test the resilience of my system. And when I recover them, both the traitor and the captors will serve as proof of what happens when anyone dares interfere with my work.
_______________________________
Last night was a failure, but today would not repeat the same outcome. Failure was a variable I did not tolerate for long.
I enter my laboratory at the GeneX headquarters, the sterile scent of chemicals and ozone filling my senses. Scientists scatter slightly as I approach, their heads dipping over benches as if shielding something, or someone. Amid the movement, a flash of white hair catches my eye, a figure at the centre of the group.
"Noah! We've missed you so much," one of the scientists says, voice overly enthusiastic.
"We were so disappointed when you left," another adds.
I step closer. The cluster of researchers disperses immediately, retreating to their respective duties, as if aware that proximity to me demands obedience. At the centre, Noah sits at his desk, head raised, a faint, calculated smile playing across his face. His expression is precise, calculated, revealing mental processes occurring outside the range of my direct observation.
"Good to see you kept your promise," I say, voice even, controlled, weighing his response.
"Of course I would, Father," he replies, the smile persistent, deliberate. His tone is smooth, confident, almost casual. But beneath it, I detect the familiar pattern of his subtle manipulations, the layers of intention I instilled in him.
I nod, eyes scanning the array of instruments and data terminals surrounding him. "I trust the Nexa units have proven useful," I continue, ensuring he recalls the origin of every resource, every tool at his disposal. Control is not a suggestion, it is a reminder.
"Indeed," he replies, carefully measured. "They perform as expected."
I allow a brief pause, scanning the room, noting the slight tension among the remaining scientists. Then, turning to leave, I feel the subtle tug of his presence, a voice that interrupts the flow of command. But I require his mind to keep the Survial Project running while I focus on the Burnout cure.
"Oh, Father," he calls, leaning forward, hand resting under his chin, eyes observing as they follow my movement. "Keep Finn out of our business."
I stop, instinctively measuring the implication. Finn must have probed into the promise Noah made to me, an unregulated variable I had not anticipated. The warning is not casual, it is deliberate, a test of my reach, of boundaries, and perhaps of trust.
I do not respond immediately. Instead, I note the placement of his hands, the precise angle of his posture, the subtle shifts in expression. Each is a signal, a micro-gesture of intent. When he turns back to the console, fingers poised over the keyboard, I allow myself a measured acknowledgment.
Noah's loyalty is absolute, but not blind. He remembers the constructs I designed him with, the parameters, the protocols, the hierarchy of obedience. Yet within those constraints, he has learned to navigate, to negotiate and to influence. It is not defiance, it is the calculus of intelligence operating under constraints I created.
I walk out of the laboratory, mind already shifting to the tasks ahead. Every failure, every anomaly, is a variable to be corrected, a protocol to be reinforced. And today, unlike yesterday, every variable will fall under my control.
As I make my way down the corridor toward my office, the vibration of my phone interrupts the steady rhythm of my steps. A notification appears on the screen- the mission file from 004 operation. Finally.
Upon entering my office, I dismiss the ambient lighting to its lowest setting and open the notification on the computer terminal. Before launching the file, my gaze drifts toward the adjoining glass panel that overlooks the laboratory. Through it, I can see Noah, surrounded by a small team, his movements precise, methodical, almost performative. He cannot see my screen from this angle, but even so, I walk over and lower the blinds.
The video opens and I press play.
The footage begins with standard mission parameters being met. Kai, also known as 004, executes infiltration with efficiency and subdues Dr. Thomas without incident. Neural response patterns align with expected operational control. Then, an unexpected anomaly, a tall, unidentified male entering the cabin. The interference disrupts the sequence, initiating a close-quarters engagement.
Another intruder later follows, compounding the instability. Despite the deviation, Kai demonstrates control, recalibrating his movements with adaptive precision and he is able to bring anyone under his control.
So why did he fail?
I lean forward slightly, eyes narrowing on the feed. My hand stills the mouse as I pause the footage. The screen freezes on a figure, a man removing his hat and mask and recognition strikes immediately.
Test Subject 012.
I hadn't accounted for that variable re-entering the equation. He died during his experiment years ago. Yet there he stands, alive.
My hand rises to my lips, fingers pressing lightly against them as I analyse the implications.
Then, as I continue the video, 012 turns directly toward the operative camera. His expression carries that same trace of arrogance I once tried to suppress in him.
"Tell Dr. Langford he can't hide behind his fortress forever. And tell him… Kai is mine now."
The screen flickers to black.
I sit back slowly, the words lingering in the sterile air. This is an organised act of defiance, an echo from the failures I discarded.
Fascinating.
Either way, this is not the work of a significant revolutionary movement, but rather a targeted manifestation of what can only be classified as a calculated act of retribution.
I exhale slowly, gaze still on the black screen. "So," I murmur under my breath, tone clinical yet laced with quiet intrigue, "you want to interfere with my work, my creations."
A faint smile traces my lips as I reopen the data terminal. "Then let's see how long you can survive when the real battle begins"
Already, my mind begins to structure the next series of countermeasures, tracking, retrieval, recalibration. The failed must be erased. Control must be restored to equilibrium.
And this time, there will be no margin for error.
.