“I’m aware of the timeline.”
“The program was developed under a government that was using military force against its own citizens. Protesters were being labeled domestic terrorists. People were disappearing into detention centers.” I pause. “Did that give you any reservations about participating?”
The silence stretches. Rachel looks like she’s about to have an aneurysm. Jason has stopped pretending to take notes entirely.
Vanguard leans back in his chair, and for a long moment, I think he’s going to shut me down entirely, give me the corporate non-answer and move on. Instead, he does something unexpected.
He laughs, a short, humorless sound.
“You really don’t pull punches, do you?”
“I warned you at the gala.”
“You did.” He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the careful styling, and suddenly he looks less like a propaganda poster and more like a soldier with PTSD. “The honest answer is that I wasn’t thinking about much when I joined the program. I wasn’t thinking about much of anything except…”
He stops, swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
“Except?” I prompt, gentler than I intended.
“Except that I’d just lost someone, and I wanted to be useful. To matter. To do something that might actually help people instead of—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “The program offered me a chance to be more than what I was. I took it. Whether that was the right choice…” He shrugs, looking momentarily helpless. “I ask myself that sometimes.”
Rachel jumps in before I can follow up. “And he’s done incredible work since. The lives saved, the disasters averted—Vanguard has been instrumental in America’s recovery. He’s a symbol of hope for millions.”
“I didn’t ask about millions,” I say to her dismissively while I hold his gaze. “I asked about him.”
Something passes between us, a current of understanding, maybe, like he sees something in me he shouldn’t. The masks we wear…
“Next question,” Vanguard says quietly.
He wants a break. I give him one.
“Your senses. You mentioned they’re enhanced. Just how enhanced are we talking?”
He seems relieved at the change of subject. “Enhanced enough that I can hear your heartbeat from across this table.”
I freeze. Oh, that’s just bloody fantastic. He can probably hear it hammering right now like a goddamn drum.
“That must be overwhelming,” I manage to say. “All that sensory input.”
“It was at first. I had to learn to filter, though it took a lot of practice. I learned to focus on what matters, learned to recognize sounds of danger, calls for help, and tune out the rest.” His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “For example, right now, I’m choosing not to listen to the conversation happening the floor below us about someone named Gerald’s divorce proceedings.”
I can’t help but smile. “Poor Gerald.”
“His wife is apparently taking the boat.”
“Tragic.”
We’re both grinning now, and I’m acutely aware Rachel and Jason are watching this exchange with growing alarm. Two people who are supposed to be adversaries, journalist and subject, suddenly slipping into something that looks dangerously like rapport.
But I can’t afford to let myself get complacent.
I force myself back on track. “What about your hearing range? If someone called for help from across the city…”
“If they were within certain parameters, I’d hear them. If they were loud enough, or if I was listening for it.” His face falls. “That’s the hard part: knowing that, somewhere out there, someone’s always calling for help, and I can’t hear everything at once or be everywhere at once.”
For now. I think of Project Prometheus.
“How do you choose then? When there are multiple emergencies, multiple people in danger, how do you decide who to save?”
