18. Cayenne
Chapter 18
Cayenne
Twelve hours after Finn’s collapse, and the beeping of medical equipment has become our heartbeat.
“Neural activity stabilizing,” Mona announces, studying displays with intense focus. “Medically induced coma functioning within parameters. Formula progression temporarily contained.”
The purple-black lines mapping Finn’s veins have stopped advancing, though they haven’t receded. His skin is pale but no longer that terrible gray from when the formula first attacked his system. Progress, however slight.
Quinn’s medical team had been dismissed hours ago—Mona declaring their interventions irrelevant and inadequate . Now we keep the vigil alone, Mona’s specialized equipment surrounding Finn’s bed like sentinels.
“He’s going to be okay, right?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. My fingers tap an unconscious binary pattern against my thigh. Where’s my usual bravado when I need it?
“Prognosis uncertain,” Mona admits, unwrapping a lollipop with quick, practiced movements. “Formula interaction with previous viral exposure creating unprecedented neural pathways. Fascinating from a research perspective. Concerning from a familial standpoint.”
“That’s not comforting,” Jinx grumbles from his position at the foot of Finn’s bed. His restless energy fills the small space as he positions himself between the door and the rest of us.
“Comfort wasn’t requested. Accuracy was.” Mona adjusts something on a monitor. “Current stability promising but insufficient for conclusive prognosis.”
Theo moves closer to Finn, drawn by the need to provide care even when medical science has taken over. He brushes Finn’s forehead in a gentle caress that somehow looks both intimate and professional.
“I’ve read studies about coma patients,” he says quietly. “They can sometimes hear what’s happening around them. Process conversations even when they can’t respond.”
“You think he can hear us?” I ask, looking at Finn’s too-still form.
“It’s possible.” Theo arranges Finn’s blankets with careful attention. “The research is still developing, but there’s evidence suggesting familiar voices can help anchor patients, give them something to follow back.”
Ryker, who’s been maintaining his silent vigil by the door—positioned to monitor both the entrance and all of us simultaneously—moves closer.
“Then we should talk to him.”
“About what?” Jinx raises an eyebrow. “The weather? Political situation? Our plans to demolish Sterling’s remaining research facilities?”
“About him,” Theo suggests. “Memories. Things that matter to him. To us.”
“Like a verbal highlight reel of his greatest hits?” Jinx considers this. “I can start with the time he calculated the exact trajectory needed to take down that Sterling guard without making a sound. It was beautiful. Like watching math come to life.”
“Or you could start with something that doesn’t involve violence,” Theo suggests gently.
“Fine.” Jinx rolls his eyes but his voice softens. “Remember when he spent three days recalibrating the security system at the mansion? He said the motion sensors were .02 seconds too slow. I thought he was being paranoid.”
“Until those sensors gave us the extra second we needed during the infiltration in Boulder,” Ryker completes the memory, his expression warming slightly.
“He’s always like that,” I say, taking Finn’s hand between mine. It’s cooler than it should be, but not cold. My thumbs trace the veins that haven’t been blackened by the formula, cataloging the patterns of him that remain unchanged. “Always thinking three steps ahead while the rest of us are still processing step one.”
“His mind is extraordinary,” Theo agrees. “But it’s more than that. It’s how he uses it. The first time I played piano for everyone, he calculated the exact acoustic properties of the room to determine optimal listening position.”
“And then insisted we all move to those precise spots,” Jinx adds with a snort.
“What you failed to mention,” Theo continues, “is that he took particular care to calculate where each of us would experience the music most fully based on our individual hearing preferences.”
“That sounds exactly like him,” I say, remembering how he would analyze everything but somehow make it feel like care rather than calculation. Each memory adds another piece to the puzzle of who Finn is beyond his analytical surface.
“Remember when he fell out of the tree trying to rescue that kitten?” Jinx’s unexpected contribution makes us all turn.
“What?” I blink, trying to imagine our methodical Finn doing something so impulsive.
“It was before you joined,” Jinx explains, a half-smile playing at his lips. “We were doing recon at the Westgate facility. This tiny orange kitten was stuck in a tree near the fence line. Making the most pathetic sounds you’ve ever heard.”
“Finn was concerned it would trigger the perimeter sensors,” Ryker says, but there’s fondness in his tone.
“That’s what he claimed,” Jinx agrees. “But he calculated like sixteen different approach vectors before climbing up there. He spent twenty minutes coaxing the thing to trust him. Got it down safely, then immediately slipped and fell six feet into a mud puddle.”
“While maintaining the kitten’s safety,” Theo adds. “He broke his wrist but kept the kitten elevated the entire time.”
“What happened to the cat?” I ask.
“Quinn has it,” Ryker answers. “Named it Algorithm.”
The image of stern, analytical Finn rescuing a kitten hits me right in the chest. I look down at his unconscious form, trying to piece together this new side of him.
“The first time we played chess,” I say, memories rising to the surface, “he was so confused by my opening moves. He kept trying to categorize my strategy, and I kept breaking the patterns.”
“That’s you all over, Glitch,” Jinx observes.
“He said I was ‘statistically improbable,’“ I continue, smiling at the memory. “Like it was the highest compliment he could give. Then he adapted his entire approach to accommodate my chaos. Not fighting it, just...integrating it.”
“That’s what makes him remarkable,” Theo says softly. “He doesn’t just analyze, he adapts. Incorporates new data into his worldview.”
“He once created a spreadsheet of my favorite weapons,” Jinx offers. “Categorized by ‘optimal chaos potential’ and ‘tactical efficiency.’ Color-coded. With footnotes.”
“Of course there were footnotes,” I laugh despite myself.
“He does the same with my medicinal herbs,” Theo adds. “Cross-referenced by efficacy, growing conditions, and seasonal availability.”
“He memorized your coffee order the first day,” Ryker says, looking at me. “Asked Jinx to verify it three times before making sure it was available at the safe house.”
The revelation catches me off-guard. “He did?”
“Said it was statistically probable that adequate caffeine would improve integration efficiency,” Ryker confirms, but his small smile suggests we all know the real reason.
We fall into comfortable silence, each lost in our own memories of Finn. Outside, rain begins to fall against the reinforced windows.
“If I were in his position,” Jinx says suddenly, breaking the quiet, “I’d want you all to have crazy hot sex nearby so I could at least enjoy it subconsciously.”
“Jinx!” Theo’s scandalized tone is undermined by the color rising in his cheeks.
“What?” Jinx shrugs, unrepentant. His eyes gleam with mischief. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. Pack intimacy, healing bonds, all that.”
“We are not having sex in Finn’s hospital room,” I state firmly, though something warm unfurls in my chest at Jinx’s outrageous suggestion. My pulse quickens traitorously, a flush of heat rising under my skin before I can suppress it.
“Your loss,” Jinx sighs dramatically. “Pretty sure it would spike his neural activity.”
“The only thing spiking would be Quinn’s blood pressure when he checks the security feed,” Ryker points out dryly.
“His loss too,” Jinx mutters.
“I’m sure Finn appreciates the thought,” Theo pacifies, then adds with unexpected mischief, “Though perhaps we could revisit the idea once he’s conscious to properly consent.”
Jinx’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise before he barks out a laugh. “See? Theo gets it.”
“I said when he’s conscious,” Theo clarifies, but his smile remains.
The moment of levity feels like air rushing into lungs too long deprived of oxygen. We need this—the inappropriate jokes, the shared memories, the connection that pulls tighter when one of us is threatened.
Mona, who has been monitoring equipment throughout our conversation while unwrapping a seemingly endless supply of lollipops, suddenly straightens. “Neural activity increasing. Fascinating pattern.”
We all turn toward Finn, watching for any visible change. His expression remains peaceful, but one of the monitors indeed shows increased activity.
“You think he heard us?” I ask.
“Inconclusive,” Mona responds, making notes on her tablet. “But probability suggests auditory processing remains partially functional.”
“Keep talking to him,” Theo encourages. “It seems to be having an effect.”
We settle into rotations after that—each taking turns sitting beside Finn, sometimes talking, sometimes just being present. The rain continues outside, creating a soothing backdrop to our vigil.
Hours pass in this strange limbo of waiting and watching. At some point, Quinn brings food that we pick at without much enthusiasm. Aria calls for an update, which Ryker delivers with military precision. Through it all, Finn remains unchanged—stable but unresponsive.
“I once saw him take down two guys with nothing but a rolled-up magazine,” Jinx says during his rotation. “Not even a good magazine. Like, some waiting room crap about home decor. Boring as hell, but apparently quite effective as a weapon. That’s our Finn—finding usefulness in the mundane.”
The night deepens around us, but none of us consider leaving. We’ve fought too hard, come too far, to separate now. We shift within the small room, unconsciously orbiting each other in a dance that feels increasingly natural.
As dawn approaches with aching slowness, gray light gradually replacing darkness, I find myself holding Finn’s hand, whispering things I’m not sure I could say if he were conscious.
“I calculate risks for a living,” I admit quietly. “Probabilities, angles, escape routes. But I still didn’t see that you... that all of you... would matter so much. I didn’t calculate for that variable.”
“What if he doesn’t—” I start later, then bite down on the fear.
“He will,” Ryker interrupts with certainty, his presence at my back solid and reassuring without crowding.
“But what if?—”
“He will,” Theo echoes, his conviction carrying equal weight as his fingers brush against mine in silent support.
“The probability of Finn giving up or giving in is statistically negligible,” Jinx adds, mimicking Finn’s precise speech patterns with surprising accuracy. “Approximately zero-point-zero-zero-one percent, accounting for all known variables.”
The imitation startles a laugh out of me. “He would hate your rounding.”
“True,” Jinx grins. “He’d demand at least three more decimal places.”
Mona has been unusually quiet for the past hour, her attention fixed on a complex display of molecular structures. When she suddenly stands, her movement is sharp enough to draw all our attention. Her eyes focus in a way that makes me nervous.
“Need to run additional tests,” she announces, looking at me with unsettling intensity. “Blood sample required. Genetic comparison necessary.”
“From me?” I ask, already rolling up my sleeve. “Whatever you need.”
“Come.” She gestures toward the door. “Lab equipment calibrated for precise analysis. Need specialized environment.”
Ryker shifts, taking a half-step closer. “Why can’t you take the sample here?”
“Cross-contamination risk,” Mona responds without hesitation. “Need sterile environment. Also, additional equipment access. Very precise procedures.”
“I’ll go with her,” I tell Ryker, already standing. “If there’s any chance it helps Finn...”
“I don’t like it,” Jinx mutters, his body angling subtly between me and the door as I move to pass him.
“It’s just a blood test,” I remind him. “I’ll be right back.”
Theo approaches, squeezing my hand. “Be careful,” he says softly.
Mona is already halfway out the door, impatient energy radiating from her. “Time-sensitive analysis,” she calls over her shoulder. “Cellular degradation factors.”
“Ten minutes,” I promise the others. “Fifteen tops.”
“We’ll be waiting,” Ryker says, his expression unreadable.
As I follow Mona into the hallway, I can’t shake the feeling that “blood test” isn’t the whole story. Her stride is too purposeful, her energy too focused for something so routine.
“Mona,” I start as the door closes behind us, “what’s really?—”
“Not here,” she interrupts, already pulling me toward the elevator. “Need privacy. Security protocols. Much information. Very sensitive data.”
The elevator doors slide open, and she yanks me inside with surprising strength. As they close again, cutting us off from the others, she turns to me with an expression I’ve never seen before—something almost like excitement mixed with fear.
“Found something,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. “In Finn’s blood. In the formula. Something nobody else knows. Not even father.”
“What are you talking about?” I demand, a chill running down my spine.
“The truth about designation,” she replies, her eyes gleaming in the elevator’s dim light. “And how to change it.”
The doors slide open onto a floor I’ve never seen before, revealing a laboratory that looks nothing like the medical facilities above. The air here carries a different quality—sterile but with undertones of chemicals that make my nose tingle.
“Welcome to real testing area,” Mona says, stepping out. “Where we fix Finn and break father’s legacy.”
I hesitate at the threshold, caught between following my sister into the unknown and returning to the safety of my pack. The connection to them stretches behind me, not visible but undeniably present—a tether I never expected to want or need.
“Coming?” she asks, already moving ahead.
And despite every survival instinct I’ve honed over years of running, I step forward into whatever strange truth Mona has discovered.
After all, it’s not just Finn’s life at stake anymore. It’s what it means to be who we are—what it means to be us—that hangs in the balance.