The failure in the Amazon had not been forgotten; it had been cauterized, burned into the collective memory of the Vanguard strike team and used as a branding iron to mark their rebirth. The Giza training grounds, once a place of their humiliation, had become their forge.
The montage of their final preparation was a symphony of quiet, desperate focus.
The Forge: Giza Training Grounds
The sun was a merciless hammer, but the twelve members of Vanguard stood motionless in the heat, their faces streaked with sweat and grime. Before them, Lin Feng was a statue of cold, unforgiving purpose.
"Again," he commanded, his voice a low, flat line.
In perfect, silent unison, the team moved. It was not a drill; it was a dance. The American pyrokinetic, Blaze, no longer threw wild, chaotic fireballs. He created a precise, shimmering curtain of superheated air, a wall of heat that distorted the light and provided perfect cover. Through this curtain, the Russian cryo-kinetic, Frost, advanced, the ground freezing in a perfect, controlled path before him. Bastion, the Nigerian woman with skin of stone, did not just stand firm; she slammed her fists into the ground, sending a targeted seismic shockwave that would have shattered an enemy's footing. And through the chaos, the German teleporter, Echo, blinked in and out of existence, a phantom striking at the designated weak points in their invisible enemy's flank.
They were no longer twelve powers. They were one weapon, each part moving in deadly, unspoken harmony.
The Armor: Jack's Laboratory
One by one, they were fitted for their new skin. Jack Wilson's Coadjuvant-class Symbiotic Armor was not a uniform; it was a bespoke instrument of war, each suit calibrated to the unique bio-signature of its user. They stood as the sleek, dark-grey alloy and carbon-fiber muscle of the armor was molded and synced to their bodies.
Blaze felt the suit not as a shield, but as a conduit, its systems designed to help him focus his fire into a lance of pure plasma. Frost felt the micro-coolant conduits woven into the suit's fibers, allowing him to push his cryo-abilities to their absolute limit without fear of self-inflicted frostbite. For each of them, the armor was not a cage; it was a release, an amplification of the power they already held.
The Core: Sophia's Medical Bay
Before their final sync, each member received an injection. It was not a vaccine or a steroid. It was Sophia Cohen's Stellar Nucleus Gene Stabilization Serum.
"This is not a weapon," she explained, her voice a calm, reassuring presence as she administered the dose to a nervous-looking Echo. "Think of it as a shock absorber for your soul. It will reinforce your cellular structure, allowing you to push your powers harder, longer, without risking bio-energetic feedback or cellular decay. It will allow you to burn as brightly as you need to, without turning to ash."
It was the gift of endurance, the promise that they could survive their own strength.
The Final Rehearsal: The Simulation Chamber
The world around them was a perfect, hyper-realistic hologram of Adler's Berlin bunker. They moved through the digital corridors, their new armor a silent, black extension of their own bodies.
"Vanguard, on me," Lin Feng's voice, calm and clear, echoed in their comms.
They met the simulated guards, not with a chaotic explosion of power, but with a terrifying, synchronized efficiency. Frost laid down a sheet of black ice, sending the guards sliding. As they fell, Echo was already there, his teleports instantaneous, his strikes precise and disabling. The entire engagement was over in four seconds, without a single wasted shot or a single panicked breath.
They were ready.
The montage ended. The twelve members of Vanguard stood in the hangar before the shimmering, silver doorway that led to Berlin. They were clad in their dark, symbiotic armor, their faces hidden behind impassive, glowing visors. They were no longer the arrogant, fractured individuals who had failed in the Amazon. They were a single, cohesive unit. A blade, forged in failure, tempered by discipline, and sharpened to a razor's edge.
The sword was ready.