The transport from the Red River Institute to Manhattan was a cocoon of pressurized luxury. Inside the Vought-branded executive shuttle, the world outside was a muted blur of grey highways and green forests, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive leather, ozone, and the electric tension of three boys who were about to see the sky without a glass dome for the first time in years.
Vaun Meyer, ten years old and currently sitting at 33,500 followers, occupied the captain's chair at the rear. He wasn't floating today; he was sitting, his posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate. He watched Reggie and Kevin.
Reggie was vibrating—not just his legs, but his entire frame. His sneakers were making a rhythmic tap-tap-tap against the floor that sounded like a drumroll. He was staring out the tinted window, his eyes wide, trying to process the sheer scale of the horizon.
"It's so big," Reggie whispered, his voice cracking. "There are no walls, Vaun. What happens if I just... keep running? Do I just fall off the edge?"
"The earth is a sphere, Reggie. You'd just end up back where you started, probably with a very high kinetic energy bill," Vaun said. He felt a rare, genuine tug of warmth in his chest. He reached out with his mind, creating a soft, cooling breeze that circulated specifically around Reggie's head. It wasn't a tactical maneuver; it was a silent gesture to keep the speedster from overheating his own brain.
"Thanks," Reggie muttered, leaning his head back into the cool current. "I feel like I'm gonna pop. Too many people in NYC. Too many cameras."
Kevin was hunched over in his seat, his hands shoved into the pockets of his high-collared jacket. He looked smaller than usual, his skin a pale, sickly olive. "The air smells... wrong. It smells like exhaust and old trash. I can't hear the water, Vaun. It's too loud."
Vaun stood up and walked over to Kevin. He didn't use his "Aero" voice. He spoke softly, just for the three of them. "Look at me, Kevin."
Kevin looked up, his soulful eyes brimming with a nervous moisture.
Vaun reached out and touched a small, wilting succulent that sat in a decorative pot on the shuttle's bar. He focused on the biological spark within the plant. With a gentle pulse of his Nature affinity, he didn't turn it into a weapon. He made it bloom. Small, vibrant purple flowers erupted from the tiny cactus, releasing a scent that was clean, floral, and deeply grounding.
"Focus on the smell," Vaun said. "It's just a set. Manhattan is just a bigger version of the Conservatory. And we're the lead actors."
Kevin leaned in, inhaling the scent. His heart rate, which Vaun was monitoring through the air pressure, began to slow. "You didn't have to do that. Sloane says we shouldn't waste energy on 'aesthetic' growth."
"Sloane isn't here," Vaun said, sitting on the edge of the table between them. "And we aren't just 'assets.' We're the only ones who know what it's like to be us. If we don't look out for each other, who will?"
Reggie zipped over, his grin returning, though it was softer than his usual "Camera-Ready" smile. "The Trio. Right. Meyer, Franklin, and Moskowitz. Sounds like a law firm for gods."
"Or a band," Kevin added, a small smile finally touching his lips.
"A band of monsters," Vaun corrected, though there was no malice in it. "Now, let's get our masks on. We're crossing the bridge."
New York City was a sensory assault. Vought had cleared a three-block radius of Central Park for the "Public Debut," but the "fans" were already lined up behind the police barricades. Thousands of people, many of them holding "AERO," "A-TRAIN," and "THE DEEP" signs, were screaming with a desperate, terrifying intensity.
"Remember the script," Sarah Sloane said, stepping into the shuttle as they arrived at the staging area. She looked at the three boys with the clinical detachment of a diamond merchant inspecting stones. "The 'Mugger' is a Vought-contracted actor with a minor durability gift. He's going to 'threaten' the girl. Reggie, you neutralize. Kevin, you provide the 'Safety Zone.' Vaun, you give them the 'Heroic Finish.' And for the love of the Board, interact. Touch each other's shoulders. Look like friends. The 'Brotherhood' metrics are testing through the roof."
"We don't need to act like friends, Sarah," Vaun said, his voice dropping into the cool, abyssal baritone of his Aero persona. "We already are."
The shuttle doors hissed open.
The roar of the crowd hit them like a physical shockwave. Vaun felt his Fan-Tracker spike immediately. [33,500 $\rightarrow$ 35,000 $\rightarrow$ 38,000]. The sheer volume of the attention was a massive caloric surge. He felt light, his feet leaving the pavement as he ascended ten feet into the air, his violet-green eyes shimmering in the New York sun.
"GO! GO! GO!" Reggie yelled, not for the script, but because the adrenaline was a fire in his blood. He blurred into motion, a blue streak of light that circled the crowd, his Mach-wake blowing the hats off the fans and sending them into a frenzy of cheers.
The "Save" began.
A girl—another actor, but a very good one—screamed as a man in a leather jacket grabbed her purse, brandishing a prop knife that looked terrifyingly real to the onlookers.
"STOP RIGHT THERE!" Reggie's voice boomed as he skidded to a halt in front of the mugger, his hands on his hips in the classic "Speedster" pose.
The mugger swung. Reggie dodged with a yawn, looking directly at a drone camera. "Too slow, buddy. Want to try again?"
Kevin stepped forward, his hands glowing with a faint, blue light. He didn't just move the water from the nearby pond; he created a Laminar Flow Shield. A perfect, shimmering dome of water rose around the girl, protecting her from the "violence."
"You're safe now," Kevin said to the girl. He reached out and gently patted her shoulder, his eyes soft. It was a moment of genuine kindness that played beautifully for the drones.
Then it was Vaun's turn.
He didn't just want to stop the mugger. He wanted to Dominate the Narrative.
He reached out with his mind and found the air molecules surrounding the mugger. He didn't blow him back. He used a Pressure Anchor. He increased the atmospheric pressure on the man's shoulders to precisely four hundred pounds. To the crowd, it looked like the mugger had been hit by an invisible hammer. He dropped to his knees, the ground beneath him cracking.
Then, Vaun used his Nature power. He reached into the manicured grass of Central Park.
"Nature doesn't abide by crime," Vaun said, his voice amplified by a localized air-vortex so it sounded like it was coming from the sky itself.
Thick, vibrant vines of flowering jasmine erupted from the dirt. They didn't lash out violently; they moved with an elegant, rhythmic grace, wrapping around the mugger's wrists and ankles like floral handcuffs. Within seconds, the "villain" was cocooned in a beautiful, fragrant cage of green and purple.
The crowd went insane.
[FOLLOWER COUNT: 45,000]
[TRENDING: #VANGUARDTRIO #CENTRALPARKSAVE]
Vaun descended, landing softly between Reggie and Kevin. He reached out and gripped Reggie's shoulder, then pulled Kevin into a half-hug.
"Good work, brothers," Vaun said.
They stood there for the cameras, three young gods in the center of the world. For a moment, even under the harsh glare of the Vought drones, the smiles they shared were real. They had survived the stage. They had survived the city. And they had done it together.
The "Victory Dinner" was held at a private Vought lounge in the Empire State Building. Sarah Sloane was ecstatic, her tablet showing a 15% increase in the Trio's collective brand value.
"You were perfect," Sloane said, sipping a martini. "The hug? Pure gold. The 'Nature Handcuffs'? We're already talking to a floral company about a line of 'Aero-Bouquets'."
But the dinner wasn't for them. They were served the same high-protein slurry, albeit in a crystal bowl, while the executives ate Wagyu steak ten feet away.
"I hate the way they look at us," Reggie whispered, his leg tapping under the table. "Like we're... I don't know, puppies. Expensive puppies."
"Puppies with teeth, Reggie," Vaun said. He looked at his Fan-Tracker. 45,200. The surge was starting to plateau, and the "Hunger" was returning—a cold, hollow ache that made him want to reach out and suck the air out of the room just to feel something.
"I saw a kid in the crowd," Kevin said, picking at his slurry. "He had a sign that said 'The Deep Saved My Life.' But... I didn't save anyone, Vaun. It was a script. The girl was an actor. The mugger was an actor. Does it even matter if it's real?"
Vaun looked at Kevin. He saw the cracks in the boy's soul, the same cracks that were forming in his own.
"The fans don't care if it's real, Kevin. They care if it feels real to them," Vaun said. He leaned in closer. "But listen to me. What happened between us in the shuttle? The flower I grew for you? That was real. Reggie keeping his cool when the drones got too close? That was real. Vought owns the stage, but they don't own the wings. Not yet."
Reggie looked at Vaun, his eyes searching. "You really believe that? That we can keep a part of us for ourselves?"
"I have to believe it," Vaun said, his eyes turning a deep, abyssal violet. "Because if I don't, I'm just a product. And products get replaced."
That night, before the return to Red River, Vaun was given his private call.
Elena Meyer appeared on the screen. She was in a penthouse suite at the Vought International Hotel. She was wearing a diamond necklace that caught the light of her ring-lamp.
"Vaun! Forty-five thousand! You're a miracle!" she laughed. "The 'Nature-Hero' angle has secured us a five-year contract with a luxury skincare brand. 'Aero-Pure.' It's going to be the biggest launch of the decade!"
"How is Emma, Mother?" Vaun's voice was like a glacier.
"She's... she's reached a new 'Micro-Goal' tonight, Vaun. She's so light now, she can float on the surface of a glass of milk without breaking the tension. Look."
Elena turned the camera.
Emma was sitting on a silver spoon resting over a glass of milk. She was ten now, but she looked like a translucent, skeletal fairy. She wasn't moving. Her eyes were fixed on the camera lens with a dull, vacant stare. She looked like a creature made of glass, ready to shatter at the slightest breath.
"She's barely breathing, Mother," Vaun whispered.
"She's evolving, Vaun! She's becoming the ultimate Meyer product! The 'Invisible Girl.' Think of the stealth-market potential!" Elena turned the camera back to herself, her eyes cold. "Now, don't get distracted by your 'heroics' in the park. You belong to the brand. And the brand needs you at 50k by the end of the month. Or your sister might lose her 'Specialist' medical team. You wouldn't want her to grow... 'bulky,' would you?"
The connection cut.
Vaun sat in the dark of the Vought lounge. He could hear the city outside—the millions of people who lived in the "real" world. He reached out and touched the window.
He didn't use a vacuum. He used his Nature power.
A single, tiny blade of grass began to grow from the microscopic crack in the window frame. It was jagged, sharp, and hungry. It grew until it touched his finger, and then it died, its energy transferred into him.
"I'm going to take it all," Vaun whispered. "I'm going to take every fan, every dollar, and every breath they have. And then I'm going to break the glass."
He felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn't have to look; he knew the pressure signature. It was Reggie.
"You okay, man?" Reggie asked, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.
"I'm fine," Vaun said, turning to face his friend. "Reggie, do you still have that 'illegal' chocolate bar you stole from the commissary?"
Reggie's eyes widened, then a conspiratorial grin broke across his face. "The one with the actual sugar? Yeah. I've been saving it for a 'Mach-1' celebration."
"Give it here," Vaun said. "We're going to share it. All three of us."
"But Sloane says—"
"Sloane can go to hell," Vaun said.
In the dark of the Empire State Building, three young monsters sat on the floor and shared a single, melting bar of real chocolate. For five minutes, there were no drones. There were no engagement metrics. There were no "Micro-Goals." There was only the taste of something sweet and the quiet sound of three friends breathing the same air.
It was the only real thing in the city of glass.