Nowhere

Paragon's days became a relentless cycle of training, testing, and reflection. The world outside the Hero Center faded to a distant memory, replaced by the constant hum of machinery, the sharp scent of antiseptic, and the low voices of those who worked tirelessly to prepare him for the unknown.

He woke each morning to the soft chime of the Center's alarms, the first rays of sunlight barely touching the city's rooftops beyond his window. He stood for a long moment, gazing out at Halcyon's skyline—spires and domes wreathed in dawn mist—before turning away to begin the day's regimen.

In the simulation bays, Paragon was pushed to his limits. The technicians adjusted the gravity, sometimes lowering it to near zero, sometimes increasing it to twice that of Earth. He learned to move with economy and grace, every muscle working in concert to control his momentum. The suit, still in its prototype phase, was tested alongside him; its servos whirred in harmony with his movements, its sensors feeding data to the engineers who watched from behind thick glass.

Each scenario was more demanding than the last. Fires erupted in simulated corridors, forcing Paragon to navigate blinding smoke and failing systems. Alarms blared as hull breaches threatened to pull him into the vacuum. He responded with calm precision, his mind cataloguing each step, each solution. Failure was not an option, but mistakes were inevitable—and each one was dissected, analyzed, and learned from.

After the simulations, Paragon entered the Neutral Buoyancy Lab. The water was cold, shocking his senses awake. He moved through submerged modules, practicing repairs with thick gloves and limited visibility. The weightlessness mimicked the emptiness of space, and he learned to trust his training, to let muscle memory guide him when sight and sound failed.

The medical team monitored him constantly. Electrodes mapped his heartbeat, his brainwaves, his stress levels. They subjected him to bursts of simulated radiation, tracked his recovery, and measured his resilience. He spent hours in isolation chambers, the silence pressing in until it became a living thing. Psychologists visited, asking questions about fear and loneliness, about the burden of leaving everything behind. Paragon answered honestly, but his thoughts often drifted to the city outside, to the people who depended on him.

In the evenings, the strategy room became his classroom. Holographic maps floated in the air, displaying star systems, potential hazards, and mission objectives. Paragon studied them until the lines blurred, memorizing routes and contingency plans. He learned to pilot the ship in virtual reality, his hands moving across controls that would soon be real. The engineers quizzed him on systems failures, on emergency protocols, on the intricacies of the alien technology integrated into the vessel.

Late at night, Paragon walked the quiet corridors of the Hero Center. He paused at the observation window, looking down at Halcyon's lights shimmering in the darkness. The city seemed peaceful, oblivious to the threat lurking beyond the stars. He pressed his hand to the glass, feeling the coolness seep into his skin, and wondered if he would ever see it again.

As the days passed, the mood in the Center grew tense. Word of the mission had spread, and the staff moved with a sense of urgency. Engineers worked late into the night, making final adjustments to the spacecraft. Doctors reviewed medical data, looking for any sign of weakness. Fellow heroes visited Paragon, offering words of encouragement, their faces betraying worry and hope in equal measure.

On the eve of the launch, the mission team gathered in the briefing room. The air was thick with anticipation. The lead engineer, a woman with silver-streaked hair and sharp eyes, handed Paragon a small, polished stone—a piece of Halcyon's ancient foundation.

"It's tradition," she said quietly. "A reminder of home. Bring it back to us."

Paragon closed his fingers around the stone, feeling its warmth. He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of each person who had worked to make this mission possible. There was pride there, and fear, and something deeper—a shared sense of purpose.

The morning of the launch arrived cold and clear. The city was just waking as Paragon made his way to the launch bay, the spacecraft gleaming in the pale light. The hull was a patchwork of alien alloys and human ingenuity, a testament to what could be accomplished when hope and desperation met.

He suited up in silence, the technicians moving with practiced efficiency. The suit fit perfectly now, every joint and seal tested and retested. As he stepped into the airlock, the door sealed behind him with a final, echoing hiss.

Paragon stood alone in the small chamber, the weight of the city, the mission, and his own resolve pressing down on him. He closed his eyes, steadying his breath, and listened to the countdown echo through the speakers.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight...

Beyond the reinforced window, Halcyon stretched out beneath him, its streets and towers bathed in dawn's golden light. For a moment, Paragon allowed himself to hope—not just for success, but for a future where the city would never need to fear the darkness again.

The countdown reached zero. The engines roared to life, and Paragon felt the ship shudder beneath him. As the vessel lifted from the launch pad, he looked back one last time at the city he had sworn to protect.

Whatever waited in the void, he would face it. For Halcyon. For everyon

Paragon broke through the last wisps of atmosphere, leaving Halcyon and its battered skyline behind. The city was just another cluster of lights on a bruised planet now, growing smaller by the second. He didn't bother with a final look. The job wasn't about nostalgia.

He leveled out in orbit, checked his course, and locked onto the faint, encrypted signal that had been gnawing at the edge of his senses since the last invader fell. It was weak, but steady—enough to follow. He set his trajectory, adjusted for drift, and accelerated.

His suit's systems ran silent diagnostics. Oxygen: enough for a few days. Water: tight, but manageable. Food: compressed ration packs, barely edible, but they'd keep him moving. He'd have to resupply somewhere, maybe on a moon or outpost if he found one, maybe on the enemy's own planet if it came to that. He didn't dwell on it. He'd figure it out when he got there.

Space was quiet. Not peaceful, just empty. The kind of silence that made you think too much if you let it. Paragon didn't. He reviewed what he knew: The invaders had come fast, hit hard, and left chaos in their wake. Their tech was advanced, their tactics brutal. He'd seen enough to know they'd be ready for a counterattack. He'd have to be faster.

Halcyon's other top heroes were still on the ground, holding things together. They'd done what they could—fought off the first wave, patched up the city, kept the panic contained. Now the threat had shifted off-world, and it was on him to finish it.

He kept his eyes forward, tracking the signal as it drifted across the starfield. Every so often, his super-hearing picked up a burst of static—maybe enemy chatter, maybe just cosmic noise. He filtered it, looking for patterns, anything that hinted at a trap or an ambush. Nothing yet.

He didn't waste time on speeches or promises. He didn't think about what he'd say if he made it back. The mission was simple: find their command, break their military, make sure they couldn't come back. If he had to improvise along the way, so be it.

The planet he was heading for was just a dot in the distance, barely visible even with enhanced vision. He'd have to be careful—check for oxygen, water, anything that could keep him moving. The enemy would be expecting him, or someone like him. He'd be ready.

Paragon adjusted his course one last time and accelerated, leaving the last traces of Earth's gravity behind. The city, the planet, the war—they were all behind him now. All that mattered was what came next.

He didn't look back.