Kai Langford - May 2114
They say your name is the first gift your parents give you.
I guess ours were her final ones.
Noah Langford. Kai Langford.
Two names, scribbled in fading ink on plastic labels taped outside a pair of identical incubators. She must've known she wouldn't make it. But even in her final moments, she gave us something to carry into the world. A name each.
That's all she left us with. A pair of names and a man who didn't want both of us.
Our father made it clear he only needed one son.
He just didn't say it out loud. He didn't have to.
Like a scientist checking off boxes on a successful experiment, exact, satisfied. Not with love, but approval. Noah fit into his world of logic and results like a puzzle piece. And as we grew, and Noah's brilliance sharpened, that cold curiosity started to turn into something resembling pride. Maybe even love.
And me?
I was just… there. The other half. The unwanted variable in the control group. A shadow clinging to the edge of Noah's light.
You'd think I'd hate him for it, for being the chosen one, for making me feel like an afterthought. But I never could. It wasn't Noah's fault he was first. And he never made me feel like I mattered less.
He hides extra snacks in my coat pocket when no one's looking. Talks to me about satellites and distant galaxies and he even helps with my homework. When Father looks through me, Noah meets my eyes instead.
"Kai, are you still listening?"
Noah nudges me with his elbow.
"Uh, yeah," I mumble, staring blankly at the worksheet. "You said the answer's... B?"
He exhales through his nose. "No." His tone is patient, but firm. "If you want my help, you need to listen. I already told you, when dilute hydrochloric acid reacts with zinc, it produces hydrogen." He underlines something on the page with his pen.
Right. Hydrogen. I try to focus, but the words might as well be a foreign language. Everything about chemistry feels like static in my brain, blurred equations, symbols that refuse to make sense no matter how many times I stare at them.
Noah, though, he makes it all look effortless.
Everyone says he's brilliant. Reads scientific journals thicker than my arm. Builds machines out of scrap metal in the garage just for fun. Solves problems that even adults at Father's lab can't figure out. We're only fifteen and yet he already sits in on GenX meetings, the kind I'm not even allowed to know exist. They actually listen to him there.
Sometimes I think he was born fluent in science, like the language of equations and chemicals runs through his blood instead of words or warmth.
"Ugh." I groan and drop my head onto the table. "I just don't get it. I'm totally going to fail this test."
Noah taps my head lightly with the end of his pen until I look up. His lips tilt into a faint smile, soft and tired. "Come on," he says. "You just need to try a bit harder."
"That's easy for the family genius," I mutter. My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. "Let's just call it for the night." There's no way I'm catching up to him anyway.
He sighs, that quiet kind of disappointment he never says out loud, then grabs a fresh sheet of paper and starts scribbling again. "I'll help you break it down," he says. "You know Father won't be happy if you fail this exam, so let me help you."
The mention of Father makes my stomach twist. I hate how that one word can silence me more than anything else.
Noah doesn't see it the same way. He doesn't understand that the way we're raised isn't normal. To him, the routines, the pressure, the endless expectations, it's just the way life is. He mimics Father without even realising it sometimes. Speaks in the same clipped, logical tone. Talks in formulas instead of feelings.
But still, he tries.
He notices me when no one else does. Even when I feel invisible, Noah somehow manages to see me. Maybe that's why I can't stay angry with him, even when his words sting.
"Fine," I sigh, sitting up again. "Show me the part about hydrogen again."
He smiles, small and proud, before diving right back into the explanation.
We study until the night bleeds into morning. My head feels fried, like the equations have melted into one blurry mess of letters and numbers but Noah keeps going, his focus unshakable.
Eventually, he closes the textbook with a quiet thud. "That's enough for tonight. We'll continue tomorrow."
His tone leaves no room for argument.
I rub my eyes, trying to blink away the exhaustion, and glance at the clock. 1:34 a.m. We've been at this for hours.
My stomach growls softly. I realise we missed dinner.
Noah looks pale under the light, dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. Guilt crawls up my throat. He should've been asleep hours ago.
"Come on, Noah," I say, nudging his leg. "I'll make you a late-night snack."
He looks like he's about to protest, but I pull him out of the chair before he can speak. He just nods sleepily and trails after me to the kitchen, his steps heavy.
I sit him on one of the bar stools and start rummaging through the fridge. A few minutes later, I slide a sandwich toward him.
"Eat," I say, trying to sound casual.
He eats slowly, eyes half-closed, like he's too tired to even chew properly.
"Noah," I start quietly, watching him. "You don't have to work so hard for my sake. It's my test... Don't push yourself for me."
He blinks up at me, eyes glazed with fatigue but still gentle. "You're my brother, Kai," he murmurs. "Of course I'll help you."
Something in my chest tightens.
Noah doesn't say I love you, he never needs to. It's in the way he stays up all night to help me. The way he sneaks snacks to me that people give him. The way he tries, even when he doesn't understand.
He loves me. I know that.
And maybe that's enough.
Because even if I fail every test, even if Father never looks at me the way he looks at Noah, if I have nothing else to give my life to, then I'll give it to protecting him.
No matter what it costs.
____________________
"Wake up, lazy!"
A sharp flick lands square on my forehead.
"Ow, what the hell?" I groan, sitting up and rubbing the sore spot. My eyes blink against the sunlight slicing through the curtains, and when my vision clears, I see Uncle Owen leaning over my bed with that smug grin plastered on his face.
Of course.
"Morning, sunshine," he says, far too cheerful for a human being.
"Ugh," I mutter, dragging the blanket over my head and sinking back down. "Not now, Owen. Five more minutes."
He ignores me completely. "It's almost noon, sleepyhead. You're going to be late for training."
Before I can even protest, the covers are ripped off and a cold rush of air hits me like a slap. Then a strong hand grabs my wrist, and the next thing I know, I'm being yanked upright.
"Owen!" I stumble forward, nearly face-planting, but he catches me easily, laughing.
"Why are you so clumsy this morning?" he asks, though there's a flicker of concern in his tone.
I glare at him through a mess of bed hair. "Maybe because someone decided to drag me out of bed before I was even awake," I grumble.
He just smirks. "Yeah, Sure."
I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. "Noah had me up all night helping me study for my chemistry test. I didn't even realise it was almost two in the morning until he shut the book."
Owen raises an eyebrow. "That lad can be a bit of a tyrant when it comes to knowledge."
That actually makes me laugh. The idea of Noah being a tyrant, ordering people around in a lab coat, maybe lecturing scientists twice his age, it's ridiculous but... kind of fitting. I can see it.
"Yeah," I say, smiling faintly. "That's Noah for you."
For a moment, Owen just watches me. There's something unreadable in his expression, something halfway between fondness and worry. Then he clears his throat.
"Come on, time to train," he says, turning toward the door. "Get dressed and meet me outside. You've already wasted half the day."
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, dragging myself out of bed.
He leaves, the door swinging shut behind him.
The room falls quiet again except for the faint hum of the air vent. I stand there for a moment, stretching my arms above my head, feeling the dull ache of exhaustion weighing me down. My body feels heavy, but my mind, my mind's goes back to Owen
Owen's the only adult who's ever really seen me.
He's our mum's brother. The only piece of her we got to keep.
He showed up on our tenth birthday with an awkward smile and a beat-up denium jacket that smelled like smoke. He never really left after that. Father didn't like him, but he didn't tell him to leave, either. Maybe because Owen made for a convenient babysitter, someone who could raise the leftover son while he focused on the "important" one.
Owen laughed loudly, cursed casually, and treated me like I was someone worth talking to, not a tagalong to Noah's genius...
"You're not your brother's shadow, you know," he said once, gently bandaging my knuckles after I'd punched a wall I probably shouldn't have. "Just cause Noah's great with all that science mumbo jumbo doesn't mean you can't be great at something too. You just need to find something you like. A hobby, maybe?"
What did I even want to do?
The question used to hang in my head, heavy and hollow at the same time. Everyone else seemed to have something they were good at, something that fit them like it was made for them. But me? I didn't know. I wasn't really good at anything.
I'd try to think of something, anything, that made me feel like I could matter, like I had a purpose. But as I tried to think of something, my mind drifted back to one memory.
Nine years old at school.
The classroom had smelled faintly of dust and pencil shavings, sunlight cutting across the floor in pale stripes. Noah was curled up in the corner, his knees drawn tight to his chest, trying to hide the tears in his eyes while some kid twice his size laughed and shoved him again.
I could still remember the sound Noah made, not loud, just this quiet, broken sound, like the air was being crushed out of him.
Something inside me had snapped.
Before I knew it, I was across the room, grabbing that kid by the collar. I hadn't thought, hadn't planned, just swung. My fist connected with his face, and he stumbled back, eyes wide and stunned. The teacher's scream came a second later, but I barely heard it. All I could see was Noah, still trembling in the corner.
I got detention for a week. Father was furious, he locked me in my room for the whole weekend as punishment. But Noah… he wouldn't stop looking at me like I'd just saved his life. That weekend, he'd sneak snacks through my open window using a little catapult he'd built himself, grinning like it was the cleverest thing in the world.
He'd always been smart, even then. Smarter than anyone else in the class. But he wasn't strong, not in that way.
He could outthink anyone, but when people got cruel, when the world turned sharp, he'd just fold in on himself, too gentle to fight back.
And I guessed that was when I decided.
If I couldn't be the smart one, if I couldn't be the one who solved problems or built machines or understood Father's world… then maybe I could be the one who fought back when Noah couldn't.
Maybe that was what I was good at.
Not being brilliant. Not being perfect.
Just being there for him.
Because if there was one thing I knew, it was that nobody got to hurt Noah. Not while I was still breathing.
When I turned back to Owen, I said, more confidently than I felt, "I want to learn to fight."
Owen blinked. Then he laughed. Loud and unexpected.
I thought I'd said something stupid.
But when he stopped, he grinned at me like I'd said something right for once. "Then let's teach you how to fight."
That's how it started. Out in the woods behind the estate, Owen showed me how to throw a punch that wouldn't break my own hand. How to breathe, how to stay on my feet. How to stop flinching.
______________________
Now I'm standing in the sparring studio, sweat trickling down my temple, fists raised in quiet readiness. My breath is steady. Focused. My knuckles are raw beneath the wraps, worn from contact but I welcome the sting. The burn reminds me I'm here. Awake.
The room's seen better days.
The ceiling lights hum unevenly, one of them flickering in protest every few seconds. The air smells like old sweat and mat foam, stale but familiar. Sunlight filters in through cracked blinds along one wall, casting narrow beams that catch floating dust. The floor mats beneath our feet are a patchwork of scuffs and tape, frayed at the corners, some squares sunken in from too many hard landings.
Duct tape holds down one edge near the wall like a battlefield scar. The place is beat up. Functional. Real. My kind of space.
Owen leans against the wall, arms crossed, towel slung over one shoulder. His voice cuts through the haze.
"Friendly spar, boys. Keep your teeth in."
Across from me, Finn Lennoy rolls his shoulders, mouth tilted into that trademark smirk.
He's all sharp angles, lean muscle, blonde hair clipped short, posture too precise to be anything but the militray's dream soldier. He fights like a machine that's been fine-tuned and field-tested. Efficient. Calculated. Always watching, even when he looks relaxed.
He raises his fists and nods once. I do the same. No words. Just movement.
He opens with a jab, fast and direct. I slip left, pivoting on the balls of my feet. Easy. He knows I'm faster and I know he's stronger. That's always been the rhythm between us.
We've been sparring partners since Owen introduced us a few years back. Said I was too used to fighting shadows and needed someone real to fight against.
He feints a low kick. I don't take the bait. He steps in, aiming high with a hook. I duck under, feeling the wind pass above my shoulder. My elbow flicks toward his ribs but he catches it on his forearm and counters with a sharp knee to my side. I absorb the hit, twist, and shove him back with my shoulder.
The mat squeaks beneath our feet as we reset. Circling. Measuring.
Noah's perched off to the side, just beyond the edge of the mats. He's sitting cross-legged on an old equipment bench, a thick book balanced across his knee, one thumb tucked between the pages. He looks up now and then, watching with quiet interest. Not quite comfortable in this world of fists and flying dirt, but still present.
Back on the mat, Finn and I clash again, faster this time.
He drives forward with a tight combo, jab, jab, elbow. I parry the first, block the second, lean back just enough to let the third pass in front of my face. I retaliate with a sharp kick to the inside of his thigh. He grunts and sidesteps, grin widening.
We trade blows. Dodge, strike, counter. The rhythm is there, almost like music. Our bodies know the steps now, rehearsed through sweat and repetition. My heartbeat settles into the tempo of the fight.
Then I see it.
A hesitation.
Half a second of hesitation in his left footwork. Could be fatigue. Could be overconfidence.
I pivot low and sweep. His legs go out from under him, and he hits the mat with a satisfying thud. I step over him, fist cocked back and strike forward, stopping just an inch from his jaw.
He doesn't flinch. Never does.
"Making progress," I say, offering him a hand.
He grins up at me. "Noah might be the brains, but you hit like a truck."
I smirk as I haul him to his feet. "That's the idea."
Finn dusts off the mat burn on his elbow and stretches out his shoulder with a wince. Across the room, Noah flips a page in his book but glances up again, eyebrows slightly raised.
He may not say much in moments like this, but his presence anchors me.
The studio is quiet now, the hum of tired lights above us and the sound of breath slowly evening out. Another round will come soon, but for now, the fight is over.
And I'm still standing.
Finn catches Noah watching and smiles. Not his usual grin, something smaller. Warmer.
Noah just looks back at his book. Not paying as much attention now that the training has finished.
I pretend that I am not paying attention as Finn continues to watch Noah. A look in his eyes, similar to others who admire him, but there is something more.
Finn mutters, just loud enough for Noah to hear, "Maybe I should start sparring with him."
From the corner, Noah calls out, "Statistically, based on your muscle mass and striking speed, the odds of me winning are close to zero. I prefer not to waste energy."
Finn laughs. "Then I'll just keep beating up your brother."
I smack the back of his head. Lightly. "You wish."
"If I had one of those Lunex vials, you wouldn't stand a chance. Can your dad set me up?" He jokes.
Noah smirks, brief and uncertain, like he's not sure he's allowed to enjoy himself here. But he does. Especially when Finn's around.
I just roll my eyes, but also catch myself smiling. The three of us have been a weird little unit for a while now. And when I introduced Finn to Noah, they clicked. Fast. I wasn't jealous. If anything, it gave me peace. Knowing someone else would look out for him when I couldn't.
Later, when we're packing up, Owen walks over. He's wearing that stupid look on his face again, something he once said was called proudness.
"You're getting better," he says, voice low and warm.
I nod.
He raises a brow. "Y'know, it's okay to be proud of something."
The words sit heavy in my chest. Like a weight I didn't know I was carrying.
I want to be proud. I know I am good at this. It's the one thing I've carved out that's mine. But pride feels like something I'm not allowed to touch.
"Yeah, sure," I mumble.
Owen sighs, but doesn't push. Just gives my shoulder a pat and leans in a little.
"You gonna tell Noah about the tournament?"
My eyes flick to where Noah sits, then quickly back. "He's presenting his GenX project that day. It's important."
"Pretty sure he'd want to be there for you, y'know."
"That's why I'm not telling him."
Owen watches me for a moment. There's sadness in his eyes.
Then Finn walks over, Noah trailing behind.
"Same time tomorrow?" Finn asks, nudging me.
I nod.
He glances at Noah. "You coming?"
Noah hesitates, fingers still curled around his book. "Maybe."
Finn's face shifts, just slightly. Like flicker of hope behind his eyes. But he just nods.
I pretend I didn't notice.
We all pretend a lot of things.