Glasgow had been his home. It was a city of hard edges and harder men, where the clang of industry sang louder than hope. Michael Cairns wasn't born a soldier, but the war had made him one.
In 1914, like so many others, he had enlisted. Not for glory, but for duty. For honour. For something to make the grinding gears of his life feel like they mattered. By 1916, that honour had been drowned in the mud of the Somme.
The trenches stretched endlessly, a labyrinth of filth and despair where men became ghosts long before they died. Michael had seen it all—the gas attacks, the relentless shelling, the endless charge-and-retreat. By the time the order came for one more push over the top, he was a hollow shell of the man who had once proudly donned his uniform.
That day, he didn't hesitate. When the whistle blew, he climbed the ladder with his comrades, a bayonet in one hand and a prayer on his lips. The air was thick with smoke and the stench of death. Bullets whizzed past him, and artillery thundered in the distance.
He never saw the shell that took his life.
When Michael awoke, he was not in the mud of France. He wasn't even on Earth, or so it seemed.
The first thing he saw was light. Blinding, searing light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He felt weightless, his body free of the pain and grime that had defined his existence for so long.
"Michael Cairns," a voice intoned, resonating through him like a hymn.
He turned, squinting against the brilliance, and saw... something. A figure, indistinct yet undeniable, radiating power and purpose.
"Your time is not yet over," the voice continued. "You will return, not as a man, but as a guardian. Rise and serve."
Before he could speak, the light engulfed him, and he felt himself falling.
When he landed, it was back in the trenches, but something was different. His body felt stronger, his senses sharper. And when he looked over his shoulder, he saw them for the first time—great, golden wings, their metallic feathers shimmering in the dim light.
He was no longer just Michael Cairns. He was something more.
Over the next century, Michael—now known as Swift Angel—served his nation faithfully, moving from one battlefield to the next. He became a symbol of hope and strength, his wings cutting through the smoke of war like a beacon.
From the muddy trenches of the First World War to the beaches of Normandy, from the jungles of Vietnam to the deserts of the Middle East, Swift Angel was there. He was the unyielding force on the front lines, the hero who couldn't die.
But as the decades wore on, the wars began to blur together. The justifications changed, the enemies shifted, but the suffering remained constant. He started to see cracks in the system he had fought so hard to protect.
By the time the Cold War rolled into its height, Swift Angel's faith in his nation—and humanity—was faltering.
He saw corruption eating away at the institutions he had trusted. He saw wars waged not for freedom, but for profit. He saw countless lives sacrificed for causes that seemed to mean less with each passing year.
In the jungles of Vietnam, he watched young soldiers die in a war they didn't understand. In the deserts of Iraq, he saw families torn apart by a conflict that felt manufactured. He began to wonder: If I can't fix this, what's the point of fighting for it?
In 2015, during a covert mission in Eastern Europe, Swift Angel confronted his superiors. The mission had been a disaster, civilians caught in the crossfire of an operation that was supposed to be surgical. He demanded accountability, demanded answers.
What he received instead was silence. And a warning.
For the first time, Swift Angel disobeyed orders. He publicly exposed the mission's failures, his golden wings unfurling as he faced the media. He was labelled a rogue operative, a traitor to the very system he had served for nearly a century.
But the public saw him differently. They saw a man who had given everything, who had fought in every war, and who now stood against the machine.
When the bombs fell, Swift Angel was in Glasgow. He had returned home, hoping to find some semblance of peace. Instead, he found the world on fire.
He watched from the ruins of his city as mushroom clouds rose on the horizon, their fiery blooms blotting out the sun. For the first time in his long life, he felt true despair.
But despair didn't suit him for long. In the ashes of the old world, he found a new purpose.
When The Vanguard formed, he took his place among them, not out of loyalty to a nation or government, but out of a desire to create something better. A world without corruption, without needless suffering. A world where his service—his sacrifice—might finally mean something.
Now, as Swift Angel stared at the map on the table in the safe house, the weight of his decisions pressed heavily on his shoulders. The others argued around him, their voices blending into a dull roar.
If only they would listen to him.
He could see the solution so clearly—a unified world, led by those strong enough to bear the burden. No more corruption, no more pointless wars. Just order and peace.
"I've fought for this world my entire life," he said softly, cutting through the noise. "And I'll keep fighting for it. But if we're going to fix it, we have to do it right. No compromises. No half-measures."
The others fell silent, their gazes turning to him.
Swift Angel's grey eyes burned with conviction. "This isn't just about survival. It's about making sure everything we've fought for, everything we've lost, means something."