Mmhmm.
“Even from me?”
“Especiallyfrom 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 asfall 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 awarenessI’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.
Thisis 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.Matchingme. 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. Ineedto 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.
