Noah Langford - August 2120
Lunex Mutation Activity: NL189 Efficacy percentage: 82%.
So close. Irritatingly close.
I sit back in my chair, fingers pressed to my temples as the data shifts across the monitor, Lunex Mutation Activity highlighted in red, Nullifier Efficacy in green, the two metrics locked in their familiar tug of war. The green line continues its slow ascent, not fast enough, not stable enough.
A month of splitting my time between my father's lab and the nullifier project has begun to leave its mark. Fatigue tries to cloud my thinking, but I refuse to let it. I can't let my precision tolerate distraction.
Mr Carr's insistence for the competition of the nullifer for the summit pushed me into practically residing at GeneX. I've increased the efficacy incrementally, methodically but the breakthrough still eludes me. The system refuses to stabilise.
83%… 84%… 85%.
For a brief moment, the data looks promising.
Then the screen flashes red.
82%… 76%… 53%.
Analysis Fail.
I exhale sharply, controlled but tight, and my hand meets the edge of the desk with more force than intended. Something clatters to the floor, but I don't look to see what it was.
I rake a hand through my hair more out of habit than desperation. I need a new angle, a new variable to test. Yet nothing presents itself.
The last batch of Nexus from my father carried me this far, but I've run out, and the thought of asking him for more sits poorly with me. I can't risk him dragging me more into his projects.
I went through the research documents included with the Nexus serum a few times. If a group operating out of an abandoned facility could reproduce it, I should be capable of the same. But the formulation, the structure, the refinement process… it's all more complex than I can replicate right now, not with everything else demanding my attention.
And still, I have to find a solution. I don't have the luxury of quitting.
My head hangs low as I force myself to breathe slow, measured, deliberate.
Think. I need to think harder.
I know the Lunex formula better than I know my own heartbeat at this point. By all logic, I should be able to solve this.
So why isn't it working?
A sharp tapping interrupts the spiral of calculations. Knuckles on glass.
I lift my head just enough to see Finn standing outside the lab window, holding a takeaway container. Of course he is.
I glance at the clock. 2:19 a.m.
I hadn't noticed the time bleeding past again. Days have begun to smear into one long, sleepless stretch of data, serum batches, and escalating irritation. If Finn didn't intervene, I'd probably forget the concept of time altogether.
I open the lab door. Finn stays there with that small, cautious smile of his.
He's assessing me. I can see it in the way his eyes track my posture, the tension in my jaw. He's checking for signs, calculating the probability that I'm edging toward another break.
The last month has been… difficult. For him as much as for me.
My temper, my stress, my inability to ground myself it's all pushed me into several psychotic episodes. Episodes I don't fully remember, but Finn definitely does.
And the way he's watching me now makes it clear he's bracing for the possibility of another.
He sets the container down on my desk and waits. He doesn't speak. He's learned not to push when my thoughts are already fraying at the edges.
"I'm fine," I say, too quickly, too clipped. Even I can hear it.
Finn doesn't respond. He just gives me that look the one that says he doesn't believe me, but he's not going to challenge me either. It's infuriatingly gentle.
"I just need more time with the data," I insist, turning back toward the monitor. "I'm close. The stabiliser should've held. The structure was-"
My voice cuts off as the frustration claws up my throat. I inhale sharply, trying to steady it.
Finn steps a little closer. Not enough to intrude, just enough to make sure I don't spiral into another internal argument with myself. He's been there for those. The scattered speech, the tangents, the sudden bursts of anger. The pieces of me I hate most.
"Noah," he says quietly, like he's afraid a louder tone might shatter whatever is holding me together tonight. "You need to rest."
"I can't." The answer slips out before I can filter it.
"I'm not stopping now," I mutter, eyes fixed on the red error report still seared across the screen. "I can't afford another setback."
"Noah…" Finn's voice softens. "You've been awake nearly two days straight."
"I've been awake longer," I snap and immediately regret the sharpness in my tone.
His expression tightens. Calm but hints of concern, and the quiet fear he tries to hide whenever he thinks I might break again.
My breathing finally slows, though my hands still shake slightly. I don't look up when Finn slides the food closer, but I don't push it away. After a long moment, I open the box and pull a slice of pizza out, and chew mechanically.
"Good," Finn murmurs, settling into the chair opposite me. "You look less like you're about to face plant."
I cast him a flat glare, but it doesn't last. I let out a slow sigh, and despite myself, the corner of my mouth quirks into a faint, reluctant smile.
We eat in silence for a while. The lab hums softly in the background, machines and monitors casting a pale glow over the dim lit office. I force myself to focus on the food.
Finn breaks the quiet, lowering his voice. "I don't know if this is the best time. but... there's something I need to tell you."
I pause mid-bite "…What now?" my voice is a bit softer now. I finally feel a bit calmer.
He leans in "I think I know why they're pushing the Nullifier so hard. Or at least… what they're reacting to."
I narrow my eyes. "…Go on."
Finn's puts his food on the table next to him "I heard it from the other guys. Quiet whispers, stuff we weren't meant to hear." He hesitates, watching me closely. "Apparently… a counterfeit Lunex got out into the public."
I freeze mid-chew. A counterfeit? That shouldn't even be possible. Not without catastrophic instability. "A counterfeit?" I repeat slowly, tasting disbelief in my own words.
"It's only rumours" Finn admits, "but some guardian apparently told Simon over drinks that there's been a noticeable increase of people manifesting abilities."
I set the food down, and my stomach drops. "And they think it's counterfeits?" My voice comes out tighter than I intend.
"There haven't been any reports of stolen Lunex vials lately," Finn clarifies. "But… apparently, these people, they're different."
"Different?" I murmur, voice low, deliberate. "What do you mean by that?"
Finn leans back, eyes steady, calm. "They said the ones affected seem… unstable. Like they stop functioning like normal people. The words they used was… 'zombies with power.'"
I swallow hard, the food suddenly tasteless in my mouth. My mind spins, calculating the implications. Counterfeits out there mean more people could gain powers. And uncontrolled powers mean more injuries, more chaos.
How did someone make these counterfeits? Who would have the knowledge, the access?
And if the formulation is different… will the Nullifier I've been struggling with even work? Even if I perfect it, there's no guarantee it'll affect this new variant. My frustration tugs at the edge of my sanity.
I didn't notice Finn moving closer until his hand touches mine, steady, grounding. Calm.
"Hey, hey, Noah," he says softly. "No matter what happens, remember, we're in this together."
I glance at him, tension coiling in my chest. Part of me wants to push him away, retreat into formulas and calculations where I feel in control. But another part relaxes slightly under his presence.
I rub the bridge of my nose and force myself to breathe. "I know," I mutter, more to myself than to him. "But I need numbers. Data. Probabilities. If this is happening, I want to know everything. Every variable, every risk, every-"
Finn suddenly ruffles my hair, and I stop mid-sentence, caught off guard.
When I look up, he nods, calm and patient. "We'll get it. But first, you finish eating, have a nap, then we plan. Okay? Your brain will short-circuit otherwise."
I sigh. This new information only makes things more complicated. But Finn is right. I feel my body pulling me toward the floor, begging for rest. My mind, for the first time in hours, seems to slow.
I finish the food, and let myself lean back. An hour of sleep should be enough to reset...