Chapter 7
MIA
Global Dynamix headquarters is exactly what I expected and yet somehow worse.
The building dominates an entire block of Midtown East, a seventy-story monument to corporate ego sheathed in black glass and brushed steel.
The lobby alone could swallow the entire top floor of my flat back in London—soaring ceilings, marble floors polished to a mirror shine, and a massive holographic display cycling through images of Vanguard saving people set to swelling orchestral music.
It’s like walking into a temple dedicated to a god who also happens to have excellent optics.
It’s bloody cheesy, and I hate it immediately, which probably means I’m in the right headspace. I shan’t be wooed.
Naturally, this being Global Dynamix, they seemed to have replaced half of their workforce with robots.
There’s one sitting at the reception desk.
Well, perhaps sitting isn’t the right term, because it seems to be built into the desk.
It has shoulders, though, a neck, and then a round screen for a face.
Creepy.
I go over, and before I open my mouth, the robot speaks.
“Good afternoon and welcome to Global Dynamix. How may I be of assistance?” it says in a feminine voice, because god forbid the bloody tech bros stray from gender constructs.
“Mia Baxter, Vantage Magazine,” I tell the robot. “I have a ten o’clock with the media relations team.”
I feel absolutely silly speaking to it. Europe didn’t quite embrace the robot and AI revolution as broadly as America did, probably because we didn’t have companies like Global Dynamix and Titan Industries working with the government and ushering in the tech in order to meet the Neo-Reactionary Movement of replacing jobs with machines.
As such, we have been spared the influx of this uncanny crap.
“Of course, Ms. Baxter. They’re expecting you,” the robot receptionist says in a voice that’s starting to sound vaguely familiar. I bet some actress sold her soul for this.
Then, there’s a clicking sound, and a visitor’s pass is printed from the black box beside her.
A robotic arm shoots out from the desk, grabs the pass, uses a stapler of sorts to attach a lanyard, and then holds it out for me.
“Please put on the badge and proceed to the security checkpoint. Someone will escort you up.”
I take it gingerly from its hand and say thank you. I want it to remember I was nice, just in case there’s a robot uprising.
The security checkpoint is airport-level thorough and a couple gloves short of a finger up the arse, with biometric scans, a bag search, and a full-body scanner that probably sees through to my skeleton.
I smile pleasantly through all of it while cataloging everything: guard rotations, camera placements, the subtle hum of random tech, the watchful eyes of people in suits hovering in corners.
Bayo would have a field day in here. I make mental notes to relay later, and I don’t dare touch my earrings.
I can’t afford any suspicion when I’m watched so closely.
A young man in a swanky suit appears at my elbow. “Ms. Baxter? I’m Tyler. I’ll be taking you up to forty-seven.”
Tyler has the eager, slightly desperate energy of someone whose entire job is making sure journalists don’t wander off and find something interesting.
At least he’s not a robot this time. He chatters the whole elevator ride—the building’s LEED certification, the on-site gym, the rooftop garden where employees can decompress.
Total snoozefest. I nod along politely and watch the floor numbers climb, my reflection ghostly in the polished doors.
Floor forty-seven is a sprawling, open-plan space that screams “we’re innovative and also watching your every move!
” Glass-walled conference rooms, standing desks, people in expensive athleisure tapping away at floating holographic displays.
Tyler deposits me in one of the conference rooms—the one with the best view of the city, naturally—and promises the team will be with me shortly.
I sit. I wait. I do not touch the complimentary sparkling water. Who knows what experimental nanobots are in there.
The team, when they finally arrive, consists of two people: a woman in her forties with her red hair pulled back and a tablet clutched like a weapon, and a man about my age with the kind of blandly handsome face that suggests he was hired specifically to be her non-threatening foil.
The woman introduces herself as Rachel Simmons, Director of Media Relations. The man is just Jason, from comms.
“We’re so thrilled to have you here,” Rachel says, taking the seat across from me. Her smile is a masterclass in professional insincerity, and she does not sound thrilled in the least. “Vantage has such a stellar reputation for thoughtful, nuanced journalism.”
In other words, we’ve read your work and we’re watching you.
“Thanks so much,” I say, matching her energy. “I’m looking forward to getting started.”
“Vanguard should be joining us momentarily. He had an early morning engagement. You know how it is.” She laughs like this is an inside joke we’re all sharing. “Before we begin, I just want to go over a few ground rules.”
Of course there are ground rules.
“Vanguard is happy to discuss his abilities, his work with Global Dynamix, and his hopes for the future. However, certain topics are off-limits for security reasons. Anything classified, anything related to ongoing operations, anything that might compromise national safety.”
I raise my finger slightly. “Ongoing operations? You mean like governmental or military? Why would he be involved in those?”
Her smile tightens. “I never said he was. I’m talking about Global Dynamix.” She taps her tablet. “I’ll be here throughout the interview to help guide the conversation. Jason will be handling any technical questions about our programs.”
“Sure.” I pull out my own tablet, my recorder, and arrange them on the table like the good journalist I’m pretending to be. “I appreciate the access. I know you don’t give many in-depth interviews.”
“We don’t. But Dr. Van Veen was very impressed with your proposal.” Rachel’s cold eyes sharpen for just a moment. “She felt you might bring a fresh perspective.”
I file that away for later. What exactly does Van Veen want from this?
Before I can dig further, the door opens.
And there’s the man of the century.
Vanguard steps into the room, and suddenly, it feels about three sizes smaller.
He’s in his full uniform, the black, high-tech fabric that sculpts every muscle from his combat boots to his gloves, the V symbol standing out on his chest. He moves with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly how much space he takes up and doesn’t apologize for it.
His dark hair is neatly styled today, his beard groomed, and when his cold blue eyes land on me, there’s a flicker of recognition, bordering on amusement.
“Ms. Baxter.” His voice is deeper than I remembered, warm and rough around the edges. “So we meet again,” he says as he removes his gloves and slides them into a hidden pocket at his waist.
“Vanguard.” I rise, extending my hand. His skin is cool, grip firm but careful, like he’s very aware of how easily he could crush my bones if he wanted to.
A tiny thrill seems to run along my nerves from the point of contact all the way to my spine.
I do my best to ignore it. “Thank you for making time for this.”
“Thank you for not calling me a weapon this time.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “At least, not yet.”
Rachel clears her throat. I ignore her.
“The day is young,” I say. “Shall we get started?”
We sit, him on one side of the table, me on the other, Rachel and Jason hovering at the periphery like anxious chaperones at a school dance.
I tap my recorder, make a show of settling in, and remind myself this is a job.
Don’t forget that he’s a target. He’s the mark.
A person of great interest. The fact that he smells like something expensive and woodsy and masculine and my stupid lizard brain is responding to his proximity is completely irrelevant.
“Let’s start with the basics,” I say. “For readers who might not be familiar with your abilities—”
“Everyone’s familiar with my abilities,” he interrupts, not unkindly. “I’m on about forty billboards between here and Times Square.”
He’s a bloody arrogant one, isn’t he?
“Humor me, then. I’d like to hear it in your own words about what you can do, not the marketing copy.”
That earns me a real smile—small, private and quick. It’s enough that my chest warms, and I feel like I’ve won the lottery.
“Fair enough.” He leans back in his chair, arms folded across that massive chest. “As you should know, I can fly. Top speed is…classified.” He glances at Rachel, who nods.
“But let’s say I can get across the city faster than any helicopter.
I’m strong. Also classified, but I can lift things most machinery can’t.
I’m durable—bullets, explosions, that sort of thing won’t take me down easily.
Enhanced senses. Faster reflexes. I heal quickly.
” He pauses, smacking his lips together.
“What else…oh, I can turn invisible. Bend light around myself so I don’t register on the visual spectrum. Useful for reconnaissance.”
“How long can you maintain invisibility?” I ask.
“Couple of hours, depending on what else I’m doing. It’s taxing physically.”
Rachel clears her throat loudly, and he shoots her an apologetic look.
Meanwhile, I’m jotting notes, playing the journalist, but inside, I’m cataloging everything. These match SOE’s intel…mostly. The vagueness around specific numbers is frustrating, but that’s also to be expected.
“And the limits? Everyone has limits.”
His brows knit together, looking irritated for a moment.