The sun did not rise over the Red River Institute; it was switched on. At 6:00 AM sharp, the high-intensity UV arrays embedded in the ceiling of the Gamma Wing common room hummed to life, simulating a crisp, spring morning in the Finger Lakes. For ten-year-old Vaun Meyer, the artificial light was a signal to begin the only thing that mattered: the maintenance of his image.
He was currently suspended in a lotus position three feet above his bed, his breathing so shallow it wouldn't have fogged a mirror. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't sleeping. He was feeling the building. He could sense the rhythmic vibration of the HVAC system, the heavy, moisture-laden air surrounding Kevin's sleeping form in the bunk below, and the frantic, hummingbird-quick pulse of Reggie in the room next door.
His Fan-Tracker, a sleek silver band fused to his left wrist, hummed against his skin.
[CURRENT FOLLOWERS: 22,105] [TRENDING: +0.4% (MORNING MEDITATION STREAMS)]
The "Pulse" was a warm, nectar-like thickness in his veins. It was the only thing that truly quieted the hollow ache in his chest—the ghost of a hunger that had begun in a Baltimore kitchen and had since grown into a sprawling, digital void. To Vaun, the fans were more than just numbers. They were his atmosphere. Without them, he felt like he was suffocating in a vacuum; with them, he felt like he could command the rotation of the earth itself.
"Aero. Drop. We have a briefing in five," a voice barked through the door's intercom.
Vaun didn't drop. He descended, the air beneath him densifying into a series of invisible steps until his feet touched the cold linoleum. He didn't stretch his muscles; he adjusted his pressure. He forced a surge of oxygenated blood through his system, a manual override of his own biology that left him feeling alert, cold, and ready to perform.
The briefing took place in the "Command Theater," a tiered auditorium where the walls were covered in real-time heat maps of global social media engagement.
Dr. Aris stood at the podium, her silhouette sharp against a projection of the Vought International logo. "Today is the Bi-Annual Advertiser Exhibition. We have representatives from twelve 'Super-Tier' sponsors in the observation booths. They aren't looking for potential; they are looking for products. If you look weak, you lose your stipend. If you look unmarketable, you are Recycled."
The word "Recycled" hung in the air like a guillotine.
"The trial is a 'Public Crisis Simulation,'" Aris continued. "A simulated subway derailment. You will be divided into three-man cells. Your objective is not just to clear the rubble and 'save' the dummies. Your objective is to do it in a way that makes a mother in Nebraska want to buy the laundry detergent endorsed by your brand."
Vaun looked at Reggie and Kevin.
Reggie was vibrating, his sneakers making a soft skrit-skrit sound against the floor. He was thin—painfully so—his body burning through calories at a rate that required him to wear a specialized thermal vest just to keep his core temperature from plummeting.
"We're the lead cell," Vaun whispered to them. "Which means we're the ones they'll use for the sizzle reel. Reggie, don't just run. Create a 'Sonic Flare.' I want the cameras to see the air ripple when you pass. Kevin, don't just move the water. I want a 'Tidal Shield.' Make it look like the water is protecting the 'victims' from a secondary explosion."
"What about the secondary explosion?" Kevin asked, his voice low and wet. "There isn't one in the script."
Vaun's violet-green eyes shimmered. "There will be. I'll provide the 'Crisis.' You two just provide the 'Rescue.'"
The simulation bay was a cavernous space filled with tons of twisted steel and shattered concrete, designed to look like a New York City transit hub. The air was thick with theatrical smoke and the smell of artificial ozone. Above, behind the one-way glass of the VIP booths, the silhouettes of Vought's corporate titans watched with predatory interest.
"Three... two... one... GO," the PA system boomed.
A series of controlled pyrotechnics went off, sending a wave of heat and dust across the floor. Reggie was a blue blur instantly, his speed creating a low-frequency rumble that shook the bleachers. He was clearing debris with a frantic, desperate grace, tossing hundred-pound chunks of "rebar" aside as if they were made of balsa wood.
Kevin was at the flooded "Track 4," his hands submerged in the oily water. He was pulling the liquid upward, shaping it into a shimmering, translucent wall that held back the "rising tide" from a group of robotic civilians.
Vaun hovered above the wreckage. He saw the drones—six of them, all focused on Reggie's speed. He saw his engagement numbers holding steady, but not spiking. To the advertisers, they were doing a "Good Job." A "Good Job" didn't get you a solo movie. A "Good Job" didn't buy Emma's freedom.
He needed a Catastrophe.
Vaun closed his eyes and reached out with his Aero-kinesis. He didn't look for the wind; he looked for the structural stress points. He found a massive, two-ton steel girder hanging precariously over the "Victim Zone." It was secured by safety cables, designed to stay put for the duration of the trial.
With a surgical flick of his mind, Vaun created a localized vacuum around the safety bolt.
He didn't break it. He just increased the atmospheric pressure on one side of the metal while removing it from the other. The pressure differential acted like a pneumatic hammer. The bolt sheared with a loud, metallic CLANG that echoed through the arena.
The girder began to fall.
"Vaun! The beam!" Kevin screamed, losing his concentration on the water shield.
The drones swiveled. The engagement ticker on Vaun's wrist went from a steady hum to a frantic, screaming pulse. [22,500... 23,000... 25,000]. The advertisers weren't looking at laundry detergent anymore; they were looking at a tragedy.
Vaun waited until the last possible micro-second. He waited until the "Victim" robots were inches from being crushed.
He didn't use the air to stop the beam. He used the Nature within the arena.
Red River prided itself on its indoor greenery. Beneath the "Subway Floor," there was a complex irrigation system for the conservatory's root network. Vaun reached into the soil. He found the "Vought-Ivy," a genetically modified climber known for its tensile strength.
He triggered a Verdant Surge.
In an explosion of green, thick, corded vines erupted through the "concrete" floor. They didn't just grow; they lashed out like hungry snakes. The vines wrapped around the falling girder, the serrated leaves digging into the metal. The beam stopped mid-air, held aloft by a web of living, pulsing emerald muscle.
Vaun descended slowly through the dust, his feet landing on the very beam he had just saved. He looked directly into the primary drone, his face a mask of calm, God-like authority.
"The environment is our greatest ally," Vaun said, his voice amplified by a localized air-pocket to sound like thunder. "And it is under my command."
The silence in the arena was absolute. Then, the VIP booths erupted with the sound of a million digital notifications.
[FOLLOWER COUNT: 25,000 → 30,000] [AERO: +50% BRAND RELEVANCE SPIKE] [TRENDING: #THEVANGUARD #NATURESHIELD]
Vaun felt the surge. It was an oceanic wave of power. His lungs felt like they could draw breath from the vacuum of space. He felt the biological expansion in his chest, his V-levels spiking to a point that made the lights in the arena flicker and die for a heartbeat.
He was ten years old, he had thirty thousand fans, and he had just learned that the best way to be a hero was to be the one who created the villain.
The after-action report was conducted in Dr. Aris's private office. She didn't look at Vaun; she looked at the "Sentiment Analysis" report on her screen.
"The safety cables failed," she said, her voice devoid of suspicion but full of a cold, analytical curiosity. "The advertisers are ecstatic. The 'Green-Security' angle is the highest-tested concept we've had in a decade. Vought-Green is already planning a line of Aero-branded gardening tools and home security systems."
"It was an instinctual reaction, Doctor," Vaun lied, his violet-green eyes wide and innocent. "I saw the threat and I reached for whatever was available."
"You reached for a power you aren't supposed to have mastered yet, Vaun," Aris said, finally looking at him. "The parasitic drain you used to fuel that rapid growth... you took the metabolic energy from the other plants in the wing to make that ivy grow that fast. Half the conservatory is brown today."
"Efficiency requires sacrifice," Vaun said.
Aris leaned back. "You sound like a Meyer. Go to your room. You've earned a 'Premium Meal' tonight. Real steak. Real potatoes. No slurry."
Vaun walked back to the Gamma Wing, but he didn't eat the steak. He stood by the window, watching the sun "set" as the UV lights dimmed. He felt the weight of thirty thousand souls. It was a beautiful, crushing pressure.
His tablet buzzed. A message from his mother.
ELENA: Vaun! The stock price just jumped 4 points! You were incredible! I've scheduled a 'Victory Feast' stream for tomorrow. We're going to show everyone how a Hero eats. Emma is so proud. She's reached a new 'Micro-Goal' today—she can fit into a champagne flute! Isn't she precious? Keep it up, my little king. We're so close to the Elite Tier.
Vaun looked at the photo attached. Emma was sitting inside a crystal glass, her skin almost invisible, her eyes two dark, hollow pits in a face that no longer looked human. She was smiling, but it was the smile of a puppet with its strings pulled too tight.
Vaun felt a violent, jagged surge of Aero-kinesis. The air in the room condensed into a needle-sharp point, cracking the glass of the window.
"I'm going to be so big," Vaun whispered to the dark. "I'm going to be so big that they'll have to build a world where she's allowed to grow again. I'll eat every 'Like,' every 'Share,' every bit of their attention until there's nothing left for you to take from her, Mother."
He reached out and touched the wall. He didn't feel the stone. He felt the air. He felt the fans. He felt the hunger.
He wasn't a boy anymore. He was a brand in the making. And the harvest had only just begun.