Chapter 10
VANGUARD
Global Dynamix has transformed the plaza outside their Midtown headquarters into a spectacle, from giant holographic displays cycling through footage of my greatest hits to merchandise booths hawking everything from action figures to branded protein powder.
A crowd of thousands is pressed against barricades, their phones raised like offerings to a god they’ve never met.
I loathe these events. The performance of it all. The careful choreography of heroism reduced to a marketing opportunity. It’s a circus at heart, at best.
And today’s circus has a new act. Step right up folks, Vanguard is old news now.
Introducing, Paragon—Global Dynamix’s worst-kept secret.
I’ve heard the rumors for months now, caught fragments of conversation that went quiet when I entered rooms, seen requisition orders for equipment that wasn’t meant for me.
Not to mention, Julia’s been cagey whenever I’ve asked, deflecting with corporate-speak about ‘expanding the program’ and ‘meeting future demand.’ I’ve never actually seen Paragon, never been in the same room.
For something that’s supposed to be my partner, if not colleague, they’ve kept us remarkably separate.
Until today.
I try and push that out of my head, my thoughts naturally drifting to Mia.
I spotted her the moment I landed on the main stage—a flash of dark hair in the press section, that leather jacket she seems to live in with her beat-up purse, her face tilted up toward me with an odd expression, like she can’t quite figure out who I am today.
She’s got a press badge clipped to her lapel, a tablet in her hand like the dutiful journalist she is, but when our eyes meet across the sea of people, something electric passes between us.
It’s undeniable.
She doesn’t wave or smile or acknowledge me in any way. She just holds my gaze for a beat too long before looking away, which tells me she feels it too.
And suddenly, this isn’t just another showcase.
It’s a performance.
From me to her.
“You’re distracted,” Julia says quietly, appearing at my elbow. She’s in her element today, dressed in a sleek white suit, her silvery blonde hair immaculate, that sharp smile enhanced with red lipstick she reserves for public appearances ready to go. “I need you focused. This is important.”
“I’m always focused,” I say, straightening my back.
“You’re looking at the press section.”
I don’t bother denying it. “I am. Mia Baxter is here.”
“I’m aware.” Julia’s tone is clipped. “I approved her credentials myself. Try not to let her presence affect your performance.”
Way too late for that.
The crowd roars as Global Dynamix’s CEO, Conrad Marsh, takes the stage, all white teeth and Gucci suit and the kind of charisma that makes you want to pour bleach in your bathwater.
He launches into his speech, the usual gibberish about the company’s commitment to public safety, the next chapter in American heroism, blah blah fucking blah.
I tune him out, scanning the plaza instead.
That’s when I see it.
Or him, rather.
A shape descending from the sky, sleek, black, and silent.
Paragon.
The crowd’s reaction changes from excitement to awe as the figure lands on stage beside me.
Where my suit is tactical, functional, designed for a soldier, Paragon’s armor is akin to an astronaut or a futuristic space solider.
It’s covered in obsidian plates that seem to absorb light, a full helmet that reveals nothing of the face beneath, and his movements are so fluid, they’re almost mechanical.
Scratch that. They are mechanical. I can hear them whirring.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Marsh announces, his voice booming through the speakers, “I give you, America’s protectors—Vanguard and our newest hero, Paragon!”
The crowd loses its collective mind, chanting, screaming, waving signs. But I barely register any of it, because I’m staring at the metal suit standing three feet away from me, and every instinct I have is screaming something is wrong. Is there even a human in there?
Paragon doesn’t acknowledge me. He doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t offer a greeting or do any of the little human things people do when they’re standing next to someone. He just stands there, perfectly still, for what feels like an eternity.
Like a weapon waiting to be deployed.
“Vanguard,” he eventually says. The voice that comes through Paragon’s helmet is modulated, genderless, stripped of anything resembling personality. “I look forward to working with you.”
The words are right, but the delivery is dead.
“Likewise,” I manage to lie.
Julia steps between us, and I watch her face transform as she looks at Paragon. There’s something in her expression I’ve seen before—that proprietary gleam, that pride of ownership, that greediness at her core—but it’s different now. At least, different from the way she looks at me now.
She’s looking at him the way she used to look at me.
“Isn’t he magnificent?” she murmurs, low enough that only I can hear, though I have no doubt Paragon can pick up on it. “Two years of development. Our most advanced work yet.”
Our most advanced work. I almost snort. Like we’re products rolling off an assembly line.
“Why haven’t we met each other before?” I ask. “If we’re supposed to be partners—”
“Paragon’s training required isolation and complete focus.
” Julia’s hand rests briefly on Paragon’s armored shoulder, a gesture of almost maternal pride.
“Just like yours did, remember? But now that the program is complete, you’ll be working together regularly.
He’ll be wherever you can’t be. America’s greatest assets and new heroic duo. ”
I look at Paragon’s helmet, that smooth, featureless, wannabe Darth Vader black, and try to imagine a face underneath. A person. A history. Something.
For some reason, I come up empty.
“Does the helmet ever come off?”
Julia’s smile tightens almost imperceptibly. “Paragon’s identity is classified. For security purposes.”
Mmhmm.
“Even from me?”
“Especially from you.” She says it lightly, like a joke, but there’s an edge to her voice. “Some secrets are above your clearance level, Vanguard. Even now.”
Before I can push further, Marsh is calling us forward for the demonstration. The main event. The reason thousands of people are packed into this plaza on a Friday afternoon.
A race.
The holographic displays shift to show a route, a circuit through Manhattan, around the Statue of Liberty, up the Hudson, and back. First one to touch down on this stage wins.
Simple, and yet stupid. Exactly the kind of spectacle that makes for good television and satisfied customers. Did I say customers? I meant citizens.
I glance toward the press section. Mia is watching, her stylus frozen over her tablet.
Good.
“On your marks,” Marsh announces.
I settle into a starting stance, feeling the familiar hum of power building in my core. Beside me, Paragon mirrors the position with unsettling precision.
“Get set.”
The crowd holds its breath. I can hear their heartbeats—thousands of them, a thunder of anticipation.
I find Mia’s eyes one more time.
Watch this.
“Go!”
I launch myself into the sky.
The gravity wells embedded in my bones respond instantly, microscopic generators threaded through my skeleton that bend space itself to my will.
I don’t so much fly as fall upward, manipulating the forces that tether everything else to the Earth.
It’s the strangest sensation, one I’ve never fully gotten used to—the constant recalculation of up and down, the awareness I’m not defying physics but rewriting it in real time.
Gravity manipulation and localized space-time distortion was one of the discoveries during the Dark Decade that changed the world for the better. At least, mostly for the better.
The city blurs beneath me as I pour on speed. Buildings become smears of glass and steel, the crowd shrinking to a mass of color and noise. The wind tears at my suit, and I push harder, faster, feeling the burn of atmosphere against my skin.
This is what I was made for. Not the speeches. Not the merchandise. This—the raw, primal joy of flight, of power, of being more than human.
Of being a superhero.
But my joy is short-lived.
Paragon is beside me.
No—not beside me. Matching me. Exactly. Every adjustment I make, every burst of speed, Paragon mirrors it perfectly.
We’re neck and neck as we round the Financial District, as we streak past the Statue of Liberty close enough to make the tourists scream, as we bank hard up the Hudson with the water churning beneath us.
I push harder and harder, my teeth gritting.
But Paragon keeps pace.
Harder still. Still there.
It’s like racing my own fucking shadow.
The competitive fire that’s been simmering in my chest flares into something hotter. Darker. I need to win this, need to prove I’m the original, the best, that whatever this thing is beside me, it’s not my equal.
And I can’t be replaced.
I won’t be.
I think about Mia watching from the plaza. Think about Julia’s hand on Paragon’s shoulder. Think about being called a product. I think about every time someone looked at me and saw a weapon instead of a man.
A tool instead of a human.
And I let the darkness in.
Just a little. Just enough for it to tickle my veins.
My speed doubles.
The world becomes a tunnel of light and motion as I push past limits I didn’t know I had. Paragon falls behind—one meter, then five, then ten. I can feel my body straining, systems I don’t fully understand working overtime, but I don’t care.
I will not lose.
The plaza comes into view, the crowd a roaring mass of color. I angle my descent, calculating trajectory and speed, and then I’m touching down on the stage with an impact that cracks the floor beneath my boots.
Three seconds later, Paragon lands beside me.
Three seconds. That’s all.
But it’s enough.
For right now, it’s more than e-fucking-nough.
The crowd erupts. Marsh is at my side instantly, arm around my shoulders, playing to the cameras with that thousand-dollar smile. “Our champion! Vanguard, ladies and gentlemen!”
My whole body feels depleted, but I manage a smile, a wave, all the performance they expect. And through the chaos, my gaze finds the press section.
Mia is clapping, grinning at me. To my delight, she looks absolutely impressed. I can’t help but flash her a quick, genuine smile.
I did it.
“Impressive,” Paragon says beside me, that dead metallic voice cutting through the crowd noise. “You exceeded projected parameters.”
Projected parameters.
“Thanks,” I say mildly. “You almost had me there.”
“I was operating at 94.7 percent capacity.” A pause. “I will adjust for future engagements.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. He’s not boasting; he’s just talking about data points, like the race was a test, and now it’s been logged for future reference for him to pull up at a later time.
“Fabulous,” I mutter under my breath. “Looking forward to it.”
Julia materializes between us again, her face glowing with satisfaction. But when she looks at me, it’s like she’s calculating something.
“You pushed yourself,” she observes. “Harder than you needed to. Harder than you normally do.”
“Yeah? I wanted to win.”
“No. You wanted to dominate.” Her pale eyes search my face. “What changed?”
I don’t answer. She doesn’t need to know it was because Mia was watching. She doesn’t need to know about the darkness I let slip its leash. She doesn’t need to know she’s completely right. I do want to dominate, at all costs.
And if I’m honest with myself, it scares me.
“Nothing changed,” I say. “I just don’t like losing.”
“Mmm.” Julia doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go. “There’s a reception upstairs. VIPs, major donors, the usual crowd. I expect you to make an appearance.”
“What about Paragon?”
“Paragon will be there as well. It’s important the public sees you together.” She pauses. “As partners.”
Right. Partners implies equality. Trust. Something mutual. I got none of those things from that machine.
Paragon is already moving toward the building, a silent glide that doesn’t quite look like walking. Julia follows, her attention fixed on her creation, and I’m left standing on a cracked stage with a crowd still chanting my name.
I look toward the press section one more time.
Mia is gone.
But she left something behind—a feeling, a pull, a reminder that somewhere in this circus of performance and control, there’s still something real. Something human.
I just have to figure out if that something is me.
The reception is everything I expected—champagne flutes and shit music and people who want to shake my hand so they can tell their friends they touched a superhero. I make the rounds, say the right things, smile until my face hurts. All in a day’s work.
The whole time, though, I’m watching Paragon.
He moves through the crowd with mechanical precision, accepting handshakes without warmth, answering questions with responses that sound not just rehearsed, but canned, exactly the same. The helmet never comes off. He never relaxes. It’s performance without personality, heroism without humanity.
And of course, everyone loves it, because everyone loves whatever the new toy is, even if the old one still works perfectly fine.
“Incredible, isn’t he?” a donor gushes beside me, gesturing toward Paragon with her champagne. “So mysterious. So powerful. My daughter is absolutely obsessed already.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Incredible.”
I excuse myself and find a quiet corner by the windows, looking out at the city I’ve sworn to protect.
The sun is setting over the Hudson, painting everything gold and crimson, and for a moment, I let myself feel small.
I’m just a man in a suit, staring at a view he didn’t earn, wondering for the first time what his purpose really is.
Deep fucking thoughts for a fundraiser.
My watch buzzes. A message from an unknown number. Not a holograph, but a text.
That was quite a show. Dinner tomorrow? I have questions.
I don’t recognize the number, but I know it’s Mia. She must have gotten my number from Julia.
I type back before I can second-guess myself: I have answers. Name the place.
Her response comes immediately: Somewhere without handlers. Or cameras. Or whatever that thing in the black armor is. Let me know if I need my LactoEase pills.
I smile despite myself.
Deal.
I pocket the phone and look back at the reception. Julia is introducing Paragon to the mayor, her hand once again resting on that black armor with unmistakable pride. My replacement. My competition. The next chapter in Global Dynamix’s vision for a better tomorrow.
But tomorrow night, I won’t be here, playing puppet.
I’ll be with her.
I think I won this round.