Noah Langford - August 2120
Light filters through the blinds, thin, diffuse, annoyingly precise in the way it carves across my face. My eyelids drag as I force them open. There's pressure on my arm, not painful, just steady. Predictable. Finn. Of course it's Finn, it usually is.
He's sitting beside the bed, watching me, calm as ever, like nothing could shake him. I try to muster a smile, but it comes out thin.
"You slept well" he says simply. No lecture, no questions. Just a quiet statement that somehow feels like reassurance.
"Yeah" I murmur, throat raw. "...thank you."
He doesn't move, doesn't answer. He just lets me wake at my own pace. Typical Finn. The thought makes my chest tighten. I hate that he worries about me like that. He shouldn't have to compensate for my broken mind.
When I swing my legs off the bed, my muscles protest, sharp reminders of last night, my escalating paranoia, the frantic calculations in the storage chamber, Finn dragging me out before I collapsed. The memory sours quickly. I glance at him, guilt twisting through me like static.
"I'm fine now" I say too fast. "I just… need to check a few calculations"
Finn frowns slightly but doesn't argue. He already knows better than to. I'm too far gone when I get like this... too obsessive.
I grab my notebook, flipping it open. The pages are a mess of half-coherent equations, schematic fragments, annotations made with a hand that clearly shouldn't have been holding a pen. Still, the information is there, scattered but salvageable.
I mutter numbers under my breath, tracing lines with a finger. The nullifier, it keeps misfiring. Every adjustment I make seems to introduce a new problem. It should be simple, straightforward. Yet somehow… nothing works.
Finn clears his throat lightly. "Breakfast?" he asks, in that same level, patient tone, as if speaking too loudly might break something.
I don't look up. "I'll eat later. I need to confirm a hypothesis."
"You've barely slept" he says, gentle but firm. "And you-"
"I said I'll eat later" I snap, sharper than the situation warrants. Finn flinches, barely perceptible, but I catch it instantly. Regret hits me just as fast. I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling. "I'm- I didn't mean that. I just… can't lose momentum. Not now. This project is too important."
Finn doesn't say anything. He just shifts closer, steadying, offering presence without pressure. That's Finn. Always grounding me. Always… somehow making me feel safe even when my own mind feels like it's betraying me.
I glance at him again, my voice lower, steadier. "I… care. About all this. And about you. You stabilised me last night when I couldn't stabilise myself. I'm aware of that." The words stick on the way out, too raw. "I just don't always know how to say it."
He offers a small, quiet smile. "You don't have to. We'll work through this, one step at a time."
I nod, though the guilt remains, anchored deep. I shouldn't involve him, shouldn't let him absorb the fallout of my mistakes. But his presence… it helps. It creates order in the chaos.
I turn back to the nullifier diagrams, pencil tapping lightly against the page as my brain re-engages. The failures frustrate me, taunt me but they also challenge me. A puzzle I refuse to surrender to.
Finn stays beside me, silent, steady, constant.
And for the first time in days I don't feel like I'm fighting the entire equation alone.
I shove the notebook aside and rise. The lab won't wait, and neither will the calculations spinning in my head. Finn rises too, staying a measured step behind.
I glance at him. "What are you doing?" I ask, tone sharper than intended.
He meets my eyes for a fraction of a second, reading me, then shrugs lightly. "I'll come with you" he says, calm as always.
I raise an eyebrow. "You just get bored sitting there?"
"Then let me be bored" he replies with that infuriatingly steady smile. "But first, I'll make us breakfast."
We move down the stairs. He veers into the kitchen while I head toward the back of the garden, already planning the next steps in my mind.
As I walk in the lab, I put my goggles on out of habit and moving toward the workbench where the nullifier sits. On paper, the formulation is perfect, but every attempt I've made to stabilise it has failed. I can feel the frustration coiling tight in my chest again.
Finn soon walks in and doesn't speak. He just places the food at the side and stands a little behind me, calm, watching, always there without crowding. I can feel the warmth of his presence, a silent tether keeping me from spiraling completely.
After a few hours of adjustments and reviewing my notes I lift a pipette, draw a sample of the green solution, and transfer a drop onto a microscope slide. The slide clicks into place under the lens, and I adjust the focus with precise, deliberate movements until the solution comes into view.
Something isn't right. There's always something.
"Finn" I mutter, more to myself than to him, "hand me the stabilising reagent."
He does, wordlessly, sliding the small vial across the bench. He always knows exactly what I need before I even realise I've asked.
I stare at the vial. It's my last Nexus sample, the final one. Securing it took endless effort, convincing the technicians at GeneX who were adamant that there wasn't a single vial left. But with enough pushing... and maybe a slight bit of blackmailing... they "surprisingly" found one.
I add the reagent, adjusting the concentrations according to my scribbled calculations. The solution swirls, faintly luminescent, and I flinch at a small spurt that bubbles over.
Finn steps closer. "You've got this" he says softly.
I bite back a reply, because words fail when my mind is spinning a hundred steps ahead. But hearing him say it, calm and certain, steadies me. Just a little, but enough.
I observe the serum. No reaction. My hands tighten into fists. I anticipated some form of response this time, any indication, but there's nothing. Still, I know the true measure of its effectiveness won't be clear until it goes through the reader.
Bur I mutter under my breath, recalculating as if it has already failed... Every failure is a puzzle, a problem to solve, but it's exhausting. My mind aches, buzzing with the pressure of precision, deadlines, and the boards looming expectations.
"You're pushing too hard" Finn says, gentle but firm. "Step back for a second."
I glare at him briefly, guilty, because he's right. But I can't stop now. Not when it's so close. Not when this serum could finally work. "I… I need to get this right" I murmur.
He doesn't argue. He just sits on the stool beside me, quietly keeping watch. Occasionally, he passes me a vial and reminds me to breathe. He doesn't coddle. He doesn't hover. He just… is there. Steady, patient, unwavering.
I adjust the final microdose, holding my breath. I introduce it to the serum. For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then the solution stabilises, shimmering with a smooth, soft glow. My chest lifts slightly. A small victory. My hands shake from adrenaline and exhaustion.
I blink at him. "I… I think it's stable" I whisper, disbelief threading through my exhaustion.
He smiles faintly, calm. "Knew you could do it."
I feel something in my chest ease, just a little. The work isn't done. Far from it. There are still tests to run, still reactions to monitor, still risks ahead.
"I won't know how well it worked until I analyse it" I say, removing the slide from the microscope and placing it into the reader.
The lid clicks shut. I boot up the software on my laptop, fingers moving with habitual precision.
"How long until we know?" Finn asks.
"About an hour" I reply, loading the sequence and pressing go.
He hesitates, thinking for a moment, then rises from the stool and takes my hand.
"Looks like you don't have an excuse this time. Let's go for a walk" he says, gently tugging me toward the door.
"But I need to monitor it" I protest, irritation flickering at the interruption.
"There's nothing you can do but watch lines bob up and down for an hour. Come on." He releases my hand, grabs the jam toast he prepared, and hands it over. "You can walk and eat. Let it go."
He's right. There's nothing I can do except obsess over the fluctuations in success rate as they rise and fall, just as they always do. I sigh, accepting the futility, and follow him out.